


The Willow Fox

by AnubisAnkh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnubisAnkh/pseuds/AnubisAnkh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. It has been for three years. Neither side won. Hermione, who is determined to usurp the new government and bring the still-free Death Eaters to justice. It is now her turn to spy, in the unlikeliest of ways.</p><p>Note: Story has been renamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I don't know why I wrote this. It came to be while I was reading _Memoirs of a Geshia,_  and inspired me to write this piece. **

**As always, I own nothing, and I place the blame for this entirely on the Plot Bunnies, my exploitable noggin, and Memoirs Of A Geisha.**

**  
**

* * *

Hermione carefully set down a tea tray and then reached for the kettle, gracefully pouring her guest a cup. The long sleeves of her robes dangled threateningly just over the floor as though they might drag any moment, but Hermione had spent enough time pouring tea to know how to do it without ruining her sleeve, whether by the tea or the floor. Her hair, which had been put up in a bun that allowed coiled tresses to spill down her neck, was as unruly as ever but Hermione had discovered taming it required not copious amounts of gel but simply the right style to do it justice.

"Thank you." The man at the table spared her a nod and then turned back to his companion.

Hermione bowed her head in acknowledgement and retreated.

The war had been over for three years. During Hermione's seventh year, she, Harry, and Ron had all gone together to hunt down the Horcruxes. They'd gone through months of pain, loss, separation, and despair before they'd finally made it to the night of the Final Battle at Hogwarts. It had indeed been the Final Battle, and the Order had lost. Dumbledore had been dead for over a year and they had nothing but a portrait, a poor copy of him, for support. It seemed to Hermione, however, that it had ended prematurely. Most of the Order had survived, spared by Death Eaters on Snape's command.

The Order had lost, but neither had Voldemort won, for as he was intending to kill Snape in the Shrieking Shack, his right-hand man had just the same idea. With all but two of Voldemort's Horcruxes destroyed, Snape tricked them both by revealing Harry's place behind the crate, in the tunnel. Harry was forced to come out, followed by Ron, but Hermione held back on her friends' desperate orders that she not be seen.

What had happened next would remain forever burdened in Hermione's mind. Pleased with his servant's delivery of his greatest enemy, Voldemort had struck Harry with the Killing Curse and was thrown back into the wall, momentarily knocked to the ground. Snape had placed both Ron and the Dark Lord in a Body-Bind before turning to Nagini and administering the Killing Curse to her.

The giant snake with which Voldemort had planned his loyal servant's demise had fallen to the ground with a horrible, final thud, and Snape turned to Harry to check his vitals.

"Where is Granger?" he had demanded of Ron, who seemed hardly able to process what was going on. Hermione could hardly blame him—she herself had been so shocked at the sight of Snape turning on his master that she could barely breathe— but Ron's stuttering earned him nothing but a muttered word demeaning his intelligence before Snape moved his attention back to Harry, who was still lying on the floor. Why he had asked about her was quite obvious—Snape was clearly perplexed as to what the two boys were doing without their brain.

A moment to check Harry's vitals and then Snape stood up.

"Well," he said with a sneer, "it seems you will live after all."

And before Ron—or Harry, who was starting to come around—could get in another word, he had disappeared through the door of the Shrieking Shack.

What happened next was something no one could have predicted. Snape went to the Forbidden Forest where the rest of the Death Eaters had been commanded to wait for their master while he dealt with the expendable among them. When it was instead Snape who returned, there had been a cry of fear, outrage, and confusion. Their response led them to nearly self-massacre themselves in the chaos that ensued upon realizing that the Dark Lord was dead.

Hermione did not have details on what happened that night, but suffice to say, with the exception of a few Death Eaters—Bellatrix Lestrange, for one—who ended up as dead bodies on the forest floor, many of the Dark Lord's followers became very flexible very quickly and pledged their loyalty to Snape, knowing that to refuse would have them joining the corpses on the ground. This alone should have ended the war, for with a vow of servitude, Snape could have pawned them all off to the Ministry and earned a nice reward and an Order of Merlin for his efforts.

But fate changed direction quite abruptly that night.

The last moments of the Final Battle concluded not with Voldemort or the Order's victory, but Severus Snape's. He took over Hogwarts that same night, citing that the Dark Lord was dead and sending an two envoys—the first didn't make it back alive and the second returned covered in painful, blistering boils— to negotiate with Minerva McGonagall. No one but the Headmistress was privy to the terms, but Hogwarts surrendered to him, and Snape disposed of Pius Thicknesse. He replaced Voldemort as the Minister of Magic, and began a revolution of such magnitude that all of Wizarding England was thrown into turmoil before it finally righted itself again.

It was surprising that such a quiet, reserved man held such ambition, such drive. But the Death Eaters obeyed him, and the Ministry was still under their control. The only thing that had changed at all was that Voldemort was no longer at the helm.

Snape changed Wizarding Britain very rapidly. The Ministry was disposed of- or rather, many people were cleaned out of it, and Snape had the final say on any matter. It might have been considered dictatorial if it weren't for the fact that he rarely interferred, instead preferring to leave the people he had assigned to office to figure out the logistics of the legislation they were proposing. Surprisingly, none of them were Death Eaters, but neither were they Order members. They were ordinary people whom had caught Snape's attention with their intelligence, cunning, and great wit, and had been offered—or rather, ordered—to the position.

Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Order had been forced to flee to North America, fearing Snape's wrath as a result of Harry's rash actions in the Forbidden Forest. They might not have had to if Harry had not sought Snape out after the battle, venturing into the forest to confront him, and found himself surrounded by Death Eaters and a very irrate ex-professor. It might have gone down better if Harry had not lost his temper and started shouting at Snape, calling him a traitor for killing Dumbledore, for letting the Carrows run rampant through the school. He threatened, in no uncertain terms, to kill him. There was nothing to say about the Carrows—Snape had already disposed of them personally. For Harry's accusations, he could have easily waved them off.

Harry's threat to see him brought before the Wizengamot was the stroke that altered the course of history.

Snape had been planning to use his Death Eaters as bargaining chips to ensure his status in the Wizarding world was restored. All he wanted to return to was teaching in his home in the dungeons. It had all been quite mundane, really. But knowing how the world at large felt about anything Harry Potter had to say, this declaration changed his plans drastically.

Hermione still didn't know why Snape didn't just kill Harry right there on the spot. He'd had no trouble murdering the Headmaster or with disposing of his newly-acquired followers whom he considered a liability. Whatever had stayed his hand, she was grateful, but Harry and the remaining Order either had to flee Great Britain or hope to make a life as fugitives sought out by Death Eaters bent on receiving favor from their new lord.

It took all of a year and a half before Wizarding Britain and the surrounding countries were declared stable again—Voldemort's influence had spread far and wide throughout Europe— and by then Asia had stuck its nose in and struck a political deal with the new dictator of Great Britain. Wizarding Japan, especially, was eager to get in Snape's good graces, particularly as he had been well-known among apothecaries there and his temper was legendary. They wanted both his business and their safety.

This caused a surprising turn of cultural diffusion to occur. Many of Snape's appointed officers became very taken with Japan, especially admiring of geisha, particularly  _majogeisha_ who were witches rather than muggles. A trend of setting up teahouses in Britain settled and many witches who had lost their jobs, their homes, and their family as a result of the war were drawn to such places that promised good business.

Hermione had not gone with the Order, insisting that she could make a living there, spying for them, since Muggle-borns were no longer persecuted, and that an insider in the country would be the most useful thing they could have at this juncture in time. Hiding out in Ontario or Alaska would hardly do much good. However, she soon discovered that with all the changes made in the country, it was very difficult—near impossible, actually—to get a decent-paying job without having completed her NEWTs or taking on an apprenticeship. The former was impossible—there was no way she could return to Hogwarts under Snape's control. Though he was no longer Headmaster and had instated Minerva McGonagall there himself, he still had absolute control—much to McGonagall's bitterness— and could easily seek her out and tear her apart for information on the wherabouts of Harry and the others. The latter was also impossible; when a master took you on as an Apprentice for any branch of magic, whether it be Potions or Transfiguration, they had to register you as such. Hermione feared that Snape would see her attempt to apprentice under someone as a threat to him. She knew very well that he would not fail to underestimate her potential to usurp him despite how insignificant she seemed in comparison at this time.

She needed a job somewhere where she could gather information without seeming suspicious. She needed a job that didn't require she have her NEWTs or a note from a master with written note of recommendation. She needed a place to stay that would allow her to remain inconspicuous and off the radar.

Thus, Hermione found herself serving tea at one of the local teahouses in the upperclass extension of the London Underground. Though she was not a geisha, many women in her position had adopted many aspects of the job and she did the same. The ordinary black work robes she had once worn had been transformed to look and work more like a kimono, though it was less restrictive and very light, allowing her to move with ease and grace. The robes—they were often called  _tokuemon_ , in keeping with Japanese nomenclature— were much simpler than those worn by professional geisha, but often had simple, animated designs.

Hermione had met a real geisha only twice in her life—both times were since she had first taken a place as a 'teahouse geisha'—and came away with quite an impression. Beautiful in their complicated, elegant kimonos, they planned their every move, walked with deliberate steps, and seemed to grace everyone in their presence with their air of mystique, intended seduction, and an innocent, almost child-like laugh. Hermione knew that underneath the makeup and robes were ordinary women, but when they were dressed up, they put on a mask of such graceful rigor that it left her astounded. She considered herself lucky to have been present at one of their dances, where they used nothing by a fan as stage props for their song and story.

However, Hermione was not a geisha. Not by a long shot. She would never be mistaken for one even by the most drunken of men. She did not wear such encompassing makeup, nor did she wax her hair so or sleep her head elevated as to prevent her hair from being flattened in the night. She did not have the training needed to be one. But she did dress in _tokumen_ —often favoring a cherry-blossom patterned one that contrasted gently with the color of her skin and the chocolate in her eyes—and she served tea and other requested refreshements. She could be paid for her company at parties, indulging in wit and conversation, her only job there to entertain and serve the guests. She could choose whether to accept the prostitution side of the deal or not, and for the past three years, had refused offers to sell her body. She lived well enough, sleeping in a room on the second floor of the teahouse she work in, and earning enough money to pay her boss for food, shelter, the air conditioning, and the little amount of make-up she used, and also still had her parents' money. She was very well off compared to many of the other women who made their rounds in the teahouses.

Had she feared soley for her safety, she probably would have taken a job at one of the lowerclass teahouses. As it was, she had no intention of hiding out. Snape would not see fit to deal with her unless she presented herself as a threat, and simply working in an upperclass teahouse that happened to be frequented regularly by men of high standing was hardly conspicuous. After all, the job paid better than the alternative. But it gave Hermione ample opportunity to spy, to pluck information from the lips of men who had drunk too much, to acquire things to send to the Order in the letters she wrote to them once and month.

She had not, however, given up her magical education. She had enlarged her solitary room with an Undetectable Extension Charm and made for herself a space in which she could do private research when she was alone. Many of the libraries, including the Hogwarts library, had been expertly restored—mostly with government funds that had been graciously given—and nothing was there to stop her from visiting the local library or bookstore to find something she needed. She practiced Potions, using her slurpus wages for ingredients. She did Transfiguration and Charms, which required nothing but knowledge and her wand. She grew a few magical plants on her windowsill, studying them in the hopes of finding something that had been erroneously overlooked by previous researchers. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes required nothing but her intellect. For the most part, she was well situated and well rounded in her studies, as she had always been.

There was the obvious problem that she only had so much time in her day to do things, but she managed to get three or four hours of concentrated study and free time in each day. She rose early and went to bed late; her body was accustomed to it now. All of her other energy went into serving at the aptly-named Magical Eye, as it was built in the ruins of what had been the Magical Menagerie and the two shops on either side of it. The shop had been burned down before the war had ended, and in front of the newly-erected building, was an animated picture of an electric-blue eyeball, swiveling and dilating as it watched customers come and go.

What had attracted Hermione to this particular teahouse was its prestiege, the frequency in which high-ranking government officials came to be entertained. Another fact was that the proprietress had been a long-time friend of Mad-Eye Moody—had known him well in school and been his friend throughout his days as an Auror—and had named the shop after him, in his honor, though the world at large thought it was called the Magical Eye in memory of the Magical Menagerie.

The deciding factor, however, was Crookshanks. Never one to let her down, the ginger half-kneazle had led Hermione here and made it very clear he wished to stay. He could be found guarding her room during the day when Hermione was working and roaming the halls late at night after most everyone had left.

Walking carefully back to the bar, she placed the tray down on the countertop and swiftly turned away to attend to another customer who was asking for a refill. For the past year, after moving from teahouse to teahouse for six months, Hermione had developed a comfortable routine. Wake up at five-thirty. Be dressed and presentable by seven. Open the doors to the teahouse and prepare to serve by seven-fifteen. At six at night, the important men would arrive, the men with bookings and reservations for private rooms or tables, and Hermione would be one of many other women in the teahouse who would come to entertain. The maids would take care of serving food and cleaning up after they were done. Hermione would switch out with another woman at eight who would take the night shift, often well until three in the morning, and she would study until midnight before going to bed. The cycle would repeat until Sunday, when she had the entire day off.

And on the third Sunday of every month, she would post a letter to her friends in America with the latest news. They alone knew her as Hermione. To the rest of the world, she had taken on a new name as many teahouse geisha had, in order to better fit in and become inconspicuious. Many of them took on Asian-sounding names though they were clearly British and it showed in their accent. Hermione, however, had changed both her names. She was no longer Hermione Granger, but a young woman named Christine masquerading as a British geisha named Sakura. It was a very common name in this line of work and had been given to Hermione as a pet name, given how often she wore the cherry-blossom  _tokuemon_.

Everyone called her Sakura. Only her fellow teahouse geisha called her Christine, and always in private, thinking it her real name. She had no surname.

No one knew her as Hermione.

"Stop daydreaming, Sakura," Mitsuru chided her. Hermione blinked and looked up, realizing she had been staring aimlessly at the tea in her tray. The strawberry blond girl continued, "Mother will take you to task for it, you know, if she catches you. Daydream on your own time."

They all called the proprietress Mother. They didn't know her real name and more than likely Mother didn't know theirs. Neither side truly cared. As long as they did their work and got paid, nothing else mattered.

Mitsuru, formerly Mattie, was the daughter of the former Head of the Magical Games and Sports department, Ludo Bagman. She'd had a job in the Ministry as a secretary before the changes had taken place and she'd been forced to find another line of work. In Hermione's estimation, she wasn't all that bright.

Hermione merely blinked in response and turned away to finish serving the customers.

~o~O~o~

Hermione was nothing but a spy working as a teahouse geisha who searched for gossip and information to pass on to her contacts in America.

But her life was turned upside down one evening in early January when Mitsuki came rushing into her room during her break, not even bothering to knock, as was Hermione's demand that they adhere to. Mitsuki was two years younger than Hermione, inquisitive, very childlike in her demeanor, and had a nose for gossip. Hermione relied on her for information that she herself couldn't get.

"He's coming!"

"Who?" Hermione turned around from the runes she'd been deciphering, raising an eyebrow in query. If Mitsuki had barged into her room without knocking, it had better be for a good reason.

"Lord Snape!" Mitsuki squealed. "He's coming to the Magic Eye!"

The quill literally fell from Hermione's hand, dropping to the floor and silently splattering droplets of ink on the wood.

Never, in the three years since the war had ended, had Severus Snape—Lord Snape now, actually—ever come to this teahouse. If he had business with associates, he invited them to his office in the Ministry, which was well protected and well guarded. His home was off-limits to all but his closest friends, which was a very short list. Almost non-existent. He preferred to spend his time alone, working on private research. If he went out, he went out alone, without fanfare (reporters were hexed if caught following him), so convinced of his prowess and skills in remaining undetected was he. There were rumors that he had visted The Three Broomsticks a time or two in disguise, but nothing concrete.

He was a different man, certainly. Still reclusive, though he took better care of himself, and his teeth had been straightened, though still yellow. He still snapped and snarled at people, particularly when they were too slow or cumbersome for his liking, and seemed to have a need to make at least one secretary at the Ministry cry before lunch the way a normal man needs coffee. He ran the country from his private recluse much in the same way he had run Hogwarts during his final year there, and it ran surprisingly well, but there was still the fact that for many, justice had not been done. It particularly burned Hermione to see Antonin Dolohov alive and well, working as Head of Security Detail in the Ministry.

But to hear that he was coming to a teahouse… even a high class one such as this… it was completely unheard of!

Her ex-professor had kept himself as secluded as possible for three years, excepting those instances within the first year that he had been taking care of administrative duties or obliterating other countries who had taken offense at his rise to power. Why come out now?

Hermione's nose twitched at this. She knew something was up.

"Why?" she demanded.

Mitsuki took a seat on the tatami mat, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands. She wore a childlike smile on her face and put a finger to her lips.

"It was Lucius Malfoy's secretary who made the call," she whispered conspiratorially. "She told Mother that they would be coming with Lord Snape a week from now and was telling them in advance so that they could arrange for there to be no customers that day." She grinned wickedly. "They want us all to themselves on that day."

"But what for?" Hermione was wracking her brain for an answer.

"Well," Mitsuki said slyly, "I think he's going to announce his engagement to a pretty woman."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said, frowning, but Mitsuki could tell that she was faintly amused at her joke. "When are they coming in?"

"January ninth. And Mother said she wants you to come down—she's calling all of us for a meeting."

Hermione stood up. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Mitsuki was grinning widely now. "I forgot."

"You liar." But Hermione reached out a hand to help Mitsuki stand and pulled her up. "Let's go. It's best not to keep Mother waiting."

~o~O~o~

Mother distinctly reminded Hermione of Mad-Eye himself. Though less paranoid and less scarred, she was just as strict and unrelenting. She didn't rule her teahouse with an iron fist, but you quickly learned to obey her. Her hair was thin and grey with age, tucked up in a tight bun. She wore a  _tokuemon_ , though it was less fancy, less flashy, than the ones her geishas wore, preferring to give them every tool possible at their disposal to do their job rather than collecting beautiful things and keeping them for herself. She was not a selfish woman by any means, and at least two of the girls employed at her teahouse had been found starving and weak on the street, unable to fend for themselves despite the fact that they were no longer hunted for being Muggle-borns.

Her face was aged and creased with serious lines; her lips, which must have been lovely and full at one point in her life, were pale and thin. She had pale blue eyes that had begun to dull, and her eyesight was growing weak, but she was still incredibly sharp and alert. The left side of her face was scarred, perhaps by a curse or knife, though since Hermione knew almost nothing about Mother, she wouldn't know. They could have been easily hidden with a glamour, along with the crease lines and the turning-milky eyes, but unlike many women her age, it seemed that Mother aged with the same acceptance and wisdom of Albus Dumbledore.

Once all of the girls—all twenty-seven of them—were seated in the kitchen, along with the cook and the twelve maids, Mother pointed a gnarled finger at Mitsuki.

"Lord Snape is coming at the end of this week," she growled. She said Snape's name with the same hatred and disdain as the rest of the Order, though it could easily be masked as reverence if you heard it in the right context. Mother was skilled in that way. "He wishes this to be a private affair. None of you are to tell any of the customers about it."

Everyone nodded quickly.

Mother's hand came to rest limply by her side. "It will be a larger party than we are used to accomodating, and they have requested all of the geishas we have here. It will run late and there will be no one to take your night shift."

There were audible mutters of complaint at this. The girls barely got enough sleep as it was, Hermione especially, though she did not voice her disappointment at this.

"It will only be for one night!" Mother snapped. "And the day before it will be closed on holiday. You will spend the day sleeping while the maids set up the main room."

Some murmurs of appreciation accompanied this statement, and Mother relaxed slightly, and her voice took on the same business tone she took with them when preparing for a large party.

"Cook here will take care of the food." No one knew what Cook's name was, either. She couldn't tell them. The most Hermione had gotten out of her through much gesturing and gesticulation was that her tongue had been cut off by Walden Macnair. She didn't seem to want anyone to know who she was. "I will expect you all to be on your best behavior. We want no reason for Lord Snape to find complaint with our service. This means," she continued, staring at each girl directly, "that no matter how you feel about him, he is just like every other man to enter this establishment. We are professional."

There were nods and statements meant to reassure Mother that they all understood.

"You won't have to do much more than what you normally do," Mother continued. "They just want pretty girls sitting around, perhaps a story or two, witty conversation, or someone who will be willing to have their ear talked off. I have made it very clear to Mr. Malfoy that if any of you refuse to service his men sexually, you are well within your rights to do so."

Audible relief pulsed through the room. There were nods and smiles, and many of them relaxed.

Mother smiled thinly at them before she pointed a withered, claw-like finger at Hermione.

"And I am assigning you to be in charge."

Hermione's heart stopped.

To be in charge meant she would be responsible for the evening. She would be watching the girls to make sure they were both doing their job and able to do their job. If one of them got drunk drinking too much wine—which had a tendency to happen, given many of the men insisted their escorts drink with them— Hermione was to find an excuse to take them out of the for ten minutes to recuperate and a Sobering Potion. She would be responsible for making sure that the men behaved themselves, and if they didn't, then she would be the one to intervene in a situation before it got out of hand and before Mother had time to arrive.

A frog seemed to lodge its way into her throat, attempting to take control of her vocal cords.

"Why me?" she croaked.

"Because you're the only one here who can do wandless magic," Mother told her firmly.

Hermione swallowed, trying to dislodge the frog that was insistently playing drum solo on the walls of her throat.

When she could finally speak, she said; "Yes, Mother."

"Good."

With the finality that laced that word clearly said, the old woman turned and left the kitchen without a second glance.


	2. Chapter 2

The reason why Mother wanted her in charge was abundantly clear. In such a large group of powerful, influential, demanding men, using wandless magic in the right situation meant that she was in a position to defuse any situation that might arise. It was not a task that Hermione would have liked to be publicly assigned to do, given that she often did it anyways, but there were some advantages that went along with the job.

First off, if Mother gave her authority, the other girls would follow it. If Hermione felt they needed to be taken out of the room for a few minutes, the girls would obey without question, or—if they were too drunk to obey coherently—the other girls would help Hermione in being discrete about where she was taking their friend.

Secondly, it meant she would be able to sit with whomever she liked. Once she had gotten over the shock, Hermione had grasped this concept quickly and was planning to take full advantage of it. She might have an opportunity to sit next to Dolohov, who did not hold his liquor well and was liable to run his mouth; or perhaps Yaxley, who Hermione had identified as their weakest link. This was a perfect opportunity to gather information without restriction.

Her heart did a little jump out of her throat, squeezing painfully, constricting her ability to breathe as it did whenever she thought about Lord Snape. He had not given himself the title, and by all accounts had responded with rage whenever people called him that initially, but eventually conceded to it. Hermione supposed he found it less exasperating than 'King Snape.' The very thought alone made her giggle. She had not seen her ex-professor in nearly three years or said a single word to him for four. But she could not allow herself to be recognized when he came.

Lucius Malfoy was familiar with Sakura. Hermione could easily use his familiarity as a cover. Though she found Malfoy to be a disgusting, self-centered man, he was also unsurprisingly well-cultured and often stopped by to have Sakura and Mitsuki perform a small duet for him. He was never interested in engaging with the girls sexually, leaving Hermione with the impression that he was actually rather devoted to his wife and their marriage. For a man Hermione found rather detestable, she could not disregard the fact that he had strong family values, and this made her feel safer when she was with him. If he wasn't interested in her sexually, she need not fear being hit upon and being put in an untenable situation. Regardless, nothing could interfere with Malfoy wanting to watch them perform, and on occasion he would join them, being a marvelous dancer. Hermione had no doubt that, given he was Lord Snape's closest friend, he would be sitting next to the man. If she sat next to Malfoy, it could get her closer to Snape.

This also raised serious questions for her. How should she use this opportunity? She had steeled herself to kill him years ago, but she wasn't prepared to die doing it if there was some other way. She still wanted to live her life after the war was well and truly over. She had turned several ideas over in her head and mulled it over in the days leading up to the party, but she had nothing concrete. She started back in square one. She had not met the man for nearly three years. People changed in that time. It was quite possible he had become more paranoid, more cautious, and it would make Hermione's job much harder. She would need to assess him first and then find a way to keep him close to her until she knew how to kill him.

She would also have to be careful around him. She was well aware of his skills in Legilimency. Harry had tutored her, with much difficulty, in the basics of Occlumency during the time Ron had abandoned them in their search for Horcruxes. Harry's teaching skills were mediocre in the subject, but Hermione had grasped the concept quickly and was now accomplished enough to block out Malfoy who—as Hermione had predicted upon first meeting him since the end of the war—was an excellent Legilimens and often did surface sweeps on the people around him. Hermione used those opportunities as a light test of her skills.

If Snape decided to ransack her mind, she was certain her defences would fail. But if he merely did a surface sweep of what the people around him were thinking…

"Christine, you're daydreaming again!"

"Sorry." Hermione refocused her gaze on Mitsuki, who wore a look of childish frustration, the kind that was worn when an older sibling was caught tuning out the ramblings of a younger one.

"You haven't been listening to a word!"

"I was distracted," Hermione replied truthfully, gesturing at the Arithmancy calculations on her desk. "Please, continue."

"Well," Mitsuki said, resting her hands in her lap where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Hermione's room, "I was thinking, if Malfoy's going to be there, we could dance for them again."

"Which one?" It seemed like a fair idea to Hermione.

"Angel of Music." Lucius was particularly fond of their two-person renditions of the popular muggle musical Phantom of the Opera. The irony, Hermione thought, was that he didn't realize it was a Muggle production. True to her name, Hermione always played the part of Christine, while Mitsuki—or occasionally some other girl—played the part of Meg. They all thought it an ironic play on her name, but none of them were aware that Hermione had derived her name from the play itself. It wasn't a coincidence.

And Mitsuki loved Phantom of the Opera, as well as the praise she got from Malfoy when she and Hermione performed well.

Hermione made her features soften in an expression of sisterly understanding. "Of course."

~o~O~o~

Crookshanks watched as the Magic Eye became a flurry of activity over the next few days. The girls spent their free time whispering excitedly to each other. None of them liked Snape. Two of them remembered him as their Potions professor. But such an event brought about feeling of excitement and eagerness. None of them were expecting to make an impression on him—or rather, a favourable one—but they still considered it an honour, of sorts. And perhaps a chance to make contacts through his officers, who could afford to give them elaborate gifts, things that may give them a chance to move to another country, another continent, and start over. It was the stuff of dreams in this era.

No one spoke about it with the customers. But behind closed doors, it was the only topic of conversation. Crookshanks was starting to get extremely curious and annoyed. He knew they were talking about someone—and Hermione had spoken about this… man… on more than one occasion in the solitude of her rooms. But he couldn't seem to place an identity on him. Did he know this human, who caused Hermione such grief? Was there anything he could do?

But it seemed all he was capable of doing, currently, was listening and collecting information. Soon, he would be able to put it to use. His whiskers twitched at this; he had an idea of the man they were talking about. However, he was certain that they were lacking some rather pertinent information. None of them had been there the night Crookshanks had seen white-bearded one and the dark-haired man arguing out on the grounds of Hogwarts, nor had any of them been aware that Crookshanks was in the office, visiting Fawkes, when the dark-haired man had reported that a so-called Unbreakable Vow had been taken.

Crookshanks wasn't certain if the man they were talking about was this man, but he considered it a distinct possibility.

There was more to the dark-haired man than met the eye. And from Crookshanks's perspective, if you were human, you were nearly blind.

He hopped off the kitchen counter, knowing that dinner would be served soon and Cook would need to wipe the surface clean beforehand, and sauntered over to the door, where he had an excellent view of the customers.

While the girls were on a break, Hermione was working overtime, and he saw her now, serving a table. Three of the men acknowledged her with a polite nod and accepted their tea; the fourth said something that was clearly intended to be lewd. Crookshanks's ears twitched angrily at this, but he watched as his human companion—ever composed— merely brushed off the remark with a lazy, teasing retort that had the man shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His companions chuckled in response. He sent her away with a dismissive hand, trying to save face, and Hermione spun on her heels and gracefully walked away.

It was very clear how she had changed over the years. Where she would have taken severe offense at such a thing being said to her, she now brushed it off. It was part of her job to look alluring, and though she did not have to take on paying consorts, she did have to keep the customers happy. Snapping at them for their rudeness was out of the question, but turning their comments on themselves had become an acquired skill, one that would have made her teachers proud if they could see her now.

She still got remarks about her hair. Many of the girls charmed their hair in exotic colours and styles to make it lie flat or become curlier than was their natural inclination, thus making them appear more attractive. Hermione never bothered with it. She was one of the shortest girls at the teahouse, allowing regulars to make jokes about how she was easily overlooked. She had an almost cat-like demeanour, inciting some of the men to give her nicknames that Hermione did not much appreciate. It was annoying, and though Hermione was skilled at masking her aggravation at such names, she spent plenty of time complaining about it to Crookshanks in the privacy of her rooms.

When she was at work, she was completely professional.

And very easily overlooked.

~o~O~o~

On Thursday morning, Hermione was awoken by the sound of two people arguing heatedly somewhere through the walls. She sleepily sat up, rolling off her bed and stretching before pulling on a large t-shirt and stumbling out to see what was going on.

She descended the stairs, nearly slipping on the polished wood; she grabbed onto the rail and regained her footing before continuing down until she'd reached the first floor. Crookshanks followed at her heels, bottlebrush tail fluffed up.

She heard voices, now talking in hushed tones. She slipped quietly toward the kitchen, through the door, and peered out into the main room. Her spy instincts kicked in, and she was suddenly alert and listening.

She heard the voice of Lucius Malfoy, smooth and in what passed for an attempt to soothe ruffled feathers. "I already explained to you that I was not certain as to what we would want for tomorrow," he said coolly. "I went through the trouble of stopping by early this morning to inform you, but perhaps my consideration was wasted—"

"My girls are not prostitutes, Malfoy!"

Somehow, hearing Mother use the words 'my girls' made Hermione's heart lighten. Mother was gruff, but she most certainly cared about the girls who worked at the Magic Eye, and hearing it was reassuring.

"And I never asked you to tell them to be." Malfoy sounded as though he were talking to a recalcitrant child. "Although I'm certain my associates would not complain if they were. No," he continued, "What we would like is for them to put on a show. Something to surprise Severus." Hearing him call the most important man in the country by his first name was somewhat disconcerting, but it only heightened the sense Hermione had that Malfoy was very important among Snape's ranks of officers. That kind of confirmation was invaluable. "I am a married man, but even I can say that I find them extremely attractive. Your girls have very beautiful bodies. I am not asking them to service us, particularly if they don't want to, as I fully understand how possessive some women are of their bodies." Smooth words, Hermione thought. "If they would only dress in something… appropriately revealing, I would be very pleased."

Hermione couldn't see the expression on Mother's face, and she imagined if she saw it she would see nothing—Mother was excellent at hiding her true thoughts—but she imagined she heard Mother's private snort of disgust. Asking her workers to dress in something even more seductive than their usual daily attire—and for a man as revolting as Severus Snape, no less!

But still, Hermione supposed, it was better to only have to show them something they could not touch rather than have to give it to them. After all, Malfoy was a very powerful man, and if he felt so inclined to, he could easily order Mother to have them all strip naked and prostrate themselves before them. She would have no choice to—after all, nothing would stop him from using the Killing Curse. This wasn't the same Wizarding Britain it had been five years ago.

But Malfoy wasn't interested in them. He was only making this request on behalf of his associates.

Mother knew she had no choice but to obey, but she continued to bargain on behalf of her girls. "And if your men approach them and they turn them down, their wishes will be respected."

Malfoy gave a sardonic bow. "I will inform them personally to abide by the rules."

Mother did not relax, but her shoulders sagged a fraction of an inch, as if in defeat. "Very well."

Malfoy stood up straighter. "I will be off, then.

Hermione made a choice at that moment to step in. Making certain she still looked properly sleep-dazed, she called hoarsely:

"Mother?"

The woman in question stiffened, but Malfoy seemed delighted by her appearance. Hermione stepped through the door, her curly hair made a bushy mess by sleep, giving her a bedraggled appearance.

"I heard voices," she said, rubbing her eyes in a show of waking up. "What're you talking about?"

Before Mother could answer, Malfoy interjected smoothly, "Preparations for tomorrow." Watching as Hermione tucked her hair out of her face, his eyes suddenly lit up, as though struck by an idea. He placed an arm around Hermione's shoulder, and Hermione suppressed the urge to flinch. She was surprised he even wanted to be near her in this state; she had not even brushed her teeth. "And that reminds me," he said, turning to face Mother once more, "I was hoping lovely Sakura here and Mitsuki would perform their usual songs for us. I'm certain Severus would be impressed."

Hermione found that unlikely, but she could see Malfoy was indeed looking forward to seeing it. It was the only thing he truly came to the teahouse for. He could get food elsewhere, pretty girls could be found working at almost any restaurant, and some places were fancier. However, it was Hermione and Mitsuki's music that kept him coming back.

Hermione brushed her hair out of her face and tilted her head slightly, putting on a winning smile. "Of course, Sir. We would be honoured to perform for Lord Snape."

"Excellent!" Malfoy pulled his arm away from her, a subtle smirk crossing his pale features. "I must be going, then. I still have paperwork to take care of in the office."

"Of course." Hermione bowed quickly and low. "Thank you for stopping by, Sir."

Hermione and Mother waited until Malfoy had left before the older woman turned to face her.

"I assume you heard everything."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mother."

"Of course you don't." Mother gave her a slight shove in the direction of the stairs, though her voice carried no malice. "Off to bed with you, unless you want to help us prepare the main room. You and the other girls will be resting until tomorrow morning. I will inform them of the change of plans at that time."

"Yes, Mother." Without another word, Hermione turned and headed back up the stairs.

As she climbed back into bed, she wondered if Lord Snape was aware of anything that had been planned for tomorrow. From the sound of it, all Malfoy had managed to do was get everyone to agree to come and have a good time. In all likelihood, Snape had no idea what was specifically in the works and would be in for a shock.

If that were the case, Hermione thought, then it must be karma for all those times he had sprung pop quizzes on them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to April93 for her awesome beta-ing skills. =) Seriously, she is absolutely amazing. Please give her a round of well-deserved applause.**

**Please review!**

* * *

The reaction of the girls on Friday morning was rather mixed. Having gotten more sleep than they'd had for months, they were in an alert, relaxed, yet somewhat nervous mood. On one hand, some of them found the idea of such a party exciting, and enjoyed the chance to show off their bodies. They were the confident ones, the sexually comfortable girls. The more self-conscious and edgy ones flinched at the order, but nevertheless submitted once they were reassured by Mother that the rules of respect still applied. They were under no obligation to bring a man to their bed.

A dark-skinned girl with black moss-like hair that had been charmed to lie flat and was particularly good at Transfiguration assisted Hermione in helping the other girls transfigure old pieces of clothing into something wearable for that night. Given who their audience was to be tonight, Hermione charmed herself a dark-green robe and harem pants that hugged her waist and ankles. She wore a suitably lacy and revealing bra, and by leaving her robe unclasped made it visible, but unless she shrugged the sleeves down her shoulders—which she could do, if she needed to use the skills with intent to seduce—it did not draw as much attention as it might have otherwise. The other girls wore similar outfits, though they preferred more colourful, gaudy shades.

Harry and Ron—particularly Ron's—jaws would have dropped if they could see her now. As it was, Hermione couldn't care less. She was used to showing off her body by now, of giving men a look at what they so dearly wanted but could not touch. Not that too many of them cared when there were at least three or four other girls who were willing, but Hermione suspected it was the thrill of the hunt that had them chasing after her.

Mother, who either decided to play it safe and put up Slytherin colors or had direct orders from Malfoy to do so, had charmed the chairs, tables, and cushions green and silver. She might have put up tinsel decoration on the wall, but Malfoy had informed her such a gesture would be wasted; Severus would spend more time blasting them off out of boredom than appreciating them.

If he was to be bored, Hermione had no idea why he was being brought here in the first place.

But Hermione finally found out what the party was for when Mother relayed to her that there would be no birthday cake.

~o~O~o~

At one, Walden Macnair arrived. Hermione gave him a welcoming smile and hoped he was well—though she was more inclined to curse him—and directed him toward the main room. He was shortly followed by the Lestrange brothers and the three men sat around on the cushions in casual discussion as their fellow officers arrived.

Antonin Dolohov entered, smirking when he saw how the room was decorated. Mulciber, Yaxley, and Nott, closely followed by Selwyn and Travers. Hermione was immensely grateful Fenrir Greyback was not among them, as well as the Carrows. Lord Snape had disposed of them personally, possibly the one good thing he'd done since taking charge. In fact, he'd taken to killing or poisoning—unsurprisingly, he had preferences—Death Eaters who either refused to serve him, had made his life particularly miserable and difficult at various times, or had otherwise done something exceedingly stupid enough to make him angry. He was hardly as arbitrary as Voldemort when it came to killing, but the first few weeks after taking charge had found many a Dark Lord supporter discovered in the morning with nothing but their bones burned to ashes.

Draco arrived shortly after Snape's nine officers had made themselves comfortable and joined them in discussion. There was wine. Mitsuru and Mamoru had taken a seat by the sliding door that led to the kitchen, appearing uninterested and aloof. They were merely there to keep an eye on things, and though Hermione didn't think much of Mitsuru's intelligence, one didn't need to be particularly smart in order to keep things from dissolving into total chaos.

It wasn't until three that Lucius Malfoy finally arrived with the man of the hour.

Who, predictably, did not look happy. He snapped something at Malfoy, which the blond man responded to in an almost deliberately, annoyingly blithe tone. The moment he stepped in, kicking off his shoes by the door—as was custom—and saw the two girls standing by the door, his eyes seemed to harden. Both girls had been former students of his. Hermione had no idea what he was thinking.

She gestured to the girls waiting in the kitchen with her before picking up her fan and sliding it into her belt and following them into the main room. They were silent, but the air was still abuzz with pleasant conversation, and like practiced ghosts, they floated into the room. Hermione and Mitsuki waited until everyone had taken a seat, finding someone to sit next to, before she approached Malfoy and gave a courteous little bow.

And then she turned to Snape, averting her eyes until she was staring at his feet—he had neglected to take his socks off—and bowed in turn. Under normal circumstances, she would have reversed the order, but she felt Snape wouldn't care less and knew that Malfoy would appreciate her initial acknowledgement of him.

"Happy Birthday, Lord Snape."

Snape didn't reply, but merely sneered down at her as though she were dirt beneath his feet. It was worse than the look he had given her while she was his student. Right now, she meant nothing to him. And why should she?

Hermione stood up straight and looked him in the eye even as she reinforced her Occlumency barriers. She needed to put him at ease, and if her judgement was right, he would be scanning the surface of her mind any minute now.

As she felt him at the edge of her consciousness, probing gently so as not to alert her to his presence, she allowed her attention to wander toward his appearance. He no longer wore teaching robes, but neither did he dress extravagantly. His robes were still black, still very simple, although he was still buttoned up to the neck. He was wearing casual robes, the kind that wizards wore on their day-offs from work when they didn't want to wear their work robes, yet wanted to look relaxed. And yet, there was nothing relaxed about Severus Snape. Hermione could feel the tension radiating through his body from where she stood, and it crossed her mind that he might actually live in fear of being killed every moment still.

The discomfort this outlook no doubt brought him gave Hermione a twinge of sadistic pleasure, but in the next instant, she realized that this made her job infinitely harder. How was she supposed to kill a powerful man like Snape who spent every moment of his life fearing assassination?

She felt him withdraw, and his sneer disappeared, now masked by cold indifference and aloofness.

Malfoy interrupted the silence.

"Tea, if you please," he said, gesturing at Hermione. She bowed quickly and turned to walk back to the kitchen to retrieve some.

When she returned, it was to find all the men sitting on the floor—which was heavily cushioned by various pillows—and Snape was sitting awkwardly on a seemingly just-conjured couch, looking rather uncomfortable at the entire situation. Every single one of his officers seemed perfectly at home, but he seemed awkward and out of place.

Hermione studied him carefully as she set the tea tray down between Lord Snape and Malfoy. Malfoy took his cup and took a sip without bothering to check it. Snape, however, sniffed his cup—no doubt to check for poisons—and Hermione felt the whoosh of a wandless, nonverbal spell breeze past her and knew he had checked it magically as well.

She had considered poisoning it, but she needed to know his habits first. His appearance had changed very little, though it seemed he had finally discovered the joys of proper soap and shampoo. His nose was still as beaky as it had ever been, his eyes as cold and unfeeling, and he was still stiffly dressed. The moment he entered, Hermione had no doubt that he would check all of his food for poison, and now her suspicions were verified. This led to other questions. Would he still check it for poison if Malfoy drank from the cup first? Would he even touch it if someone else had drunk out of it? Did he check it at every bite and every sip? Could she slip a lethal agent in when he wasn't looking?

He ignored her and took another sip, pursing his lips as though he found it too sour, and then placed it back on the tray and turned away, bored.

He hadn't even spared her a glance.

This was both a good thing and a liability. If he ignored her, she had a better chance of slipping him something unnoticed. But if he ignored her, she had no chance of gaining his trust or distracting him.

She couldn't have it both ways. She had to pick one.

But she needed more information first.

Quietly, she walked back to the kitchen to check on how Cook was faring.

~o~O~o~

In the one hour Hermione had been anonymously reunited with her ex-professor, all of her suspicions had been confirmed.

He was paranoid. He ate and drank nothing without testing it first. He was dismissive and snappish, and though she doubted nothing could stop him from being snarky as well, he had also become more aloof and distant than she remembered him being. She could feel the tension, the coiled tightness of his body that came not from strenuous exercise but from fear of assassination. His reflexes were undoubtedly so fine-tuned that if Hermione raised her wand to strike him, he would likely be out of his seat in an instant and she would be dead where she stood. Of this, she had no doubt.

And yet, he was not unreasonable. He ordered only what he wanted and was frugal, finishing up whatever he had eaten rather than let it be taken away and thrown out. He ordered wine, but drank little. He did not ask any extraordinary feats of them and preferred to let Malfoy do most of the talking for him. Indeed, he seemed entirely bored, and Hermione suspected he would much rather be at home alone to celebrate his birthday. At least in the security of his house he could relax; here he was made too vulnerable.

Dinner was served and, as Hermione had predicted, when the men moved to the tables that had been joined together, Malfoy sat to Severus's left while Draco sat on his right. The tables were low and required them to kneel or sit cross-legged, one of the reasons customers were asked to remove their shoes.

Hermione was forced to take a seat next to Antonin Dolohov, who was sitting on to the right of Draco Malfoy. It astonished her that none of them recognized her, but again, who was expecting to see Hermione Granger here?

She ignored Dolohov's leering gaze, instead sitting quietly unless spoken to. They all but ignored her, preferring to carry on conversation with the livelier girls. She sat quietly, nearly invisible, watching Snape who, it seemed, wanted to look anywhere but at the girls. His eyes would travel to his food, the table, his officers, the ceiling, and more than once, the door. But not at the girls.

Throughout the meal, Hermione felt completely invisible. She was sitting almost across from Snape, and she was close enough that she could see his nostrils flare in irritation at something said by Selwyn, she began to notice things. Small things.

In the far corner of his left eye, almost hidden by the shadow of his hair, was a cloudy, milky-white agglutination. It was barely visible, given it appeared only on the white of his eyes, but when his pupils dilated, it would overlap and Hermione could see it. The next thing she noticed was that Malfoy had entered the teahouse with Snape standing on his left and now sat on his left, and Snape was angled so that his back was almost toward his friend. An exposed, vulnerable position for someone who was so very afraid of being killed.

Hermione puzzled over this for quite some time in between bites of soba and rice, watching how he interacted with his officers. He was short and terse with them as a rule, but with Malfoy, he was different. He certainly snapped at his friend, but Hermione was starting to get the impression that Malfoy wasn't just his highest-ranking officer; he was his bodyguard. It was an odd concept, but the way Hermione was seeing it, Lucius was making an effort to always stay on Snape's left, which Hermione was starting to suspect was his blind side.

When the food was cleared and they all returned to the cushions, Hermione made her move. She gracefully walked to where Snape was sitting, with Lucius still on his left.

"Was my class that boring, then, that you cannot remember how to brew a simple Pepperup Potion?" Snape sneered at Selwyn, who had been explaining how he'd been taken out of work for a week from the flu just last month. He had clearly been regaling them with the tale in the hopes of indirectly garnering leeway or sympathy from his Lord.

Clearly, he had not achieved the desired effect.

Hermione's heart started to beat faster as she slowly brought her hand to Snape's shoulder. Malfoy didn't notice, as he was leaning forward to reach for a cup of tea from the tray—

Her hand brushed his hair, as though she were about to tuck it behind his ear.

His reaction was immediate. He jumped, one hand whipping around to grab her wrist, another reaching for his wand. In that same moment, the cup smashed to the ground as Malfoy similarly reached for his, and Hermione found herself on the receiving end of two wands.

Malfoy immediately let his wand drop to his side, and began laughing.

"Sakura, Sakura," he chided, stowing his wand away. "You should know better than to sneak up on us."

Snape had not moved an inch. His face was twisted with rage, and he looked as though he were contemplating a most painful way to punish her, but Malfoy put a hand on his arm, causing his friend to flinch, though he didn't pull away.

"All the girls do it. They can't help themselves," Malfoy told him calmly, though Hermione could detect that helpless 'what can you do?' glint in his eyes. He beckoned to Hermione. "Here, Sakura—show him."

Hermione couldn't believe her luck, and brought her hand to Snape's ear again, fingering the locks of hair gently. She put on a face of admiration and adoration, tinted with innocent curiosity. She had done this very same thing to Malfoy the first day she'd met him. Truly, it wasn't unusual; the other girls did it, and it was simply how they engaged their favourite or most important customers, by putting them in an intimate situation. They were all used to it by now, and with luck, Snape would follow suit and become used to her presence.

Snape pulled away like a head-shy horse and Hermione let his locks slip through her fingers like a lost opportunity. "Bugger off."

Hermione touched a finger to her lips. "You're really quite shy, aren't you?"

"I don't like being touched," he sneered, though it came out sounding sulky.

Hermione brought her fingers back to his hair, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy watching her appraisingly. He had never seen her approach a man like this; he was well aware that many of the men that chased her were often turned away, and she had a reputation of being a tease. But this… this was different.

His hair had most definitely been washed. It was silky and smooth and completely lacking in grease.

"You'll learn to like it," Hermione said, her voice seductive but firm. If this was how she could get close to him—by being sexually inviting and with Malfoy helping her along—then she would take it, though the thought frankly disgusted her. But she masked her true feelings, and instead added, "I've never met a man who didn't like my touch."

Snape tried to pull away again, opening his mouth to undoubtedly lambaste her for her boldness, but Hermione brought a finger to his lips, effectively shushing him by surprise, and brought her other hand around his neck to drape down his chest.

Every cell in her body rebelled against what she was doing. This was repellent, disgusting, and not only was he her ex-professor, she found him to be an invidious and nasty character, and would never be caught dead doing this under any other circumstance, but the spy in disguise side of her continued on. Her hand moved to cover his heart, and through the fabric, she could feel it beating like the wings of a bird ready to take flight in panic. He wasn't aroused. He was afraid. This was such a very vulnerable and exposed position, and if she were to bring her arm all the way around his neck and give it a sharp jerk, she could snap it, effectively killing him.

She felt him trembling, though out of fear, tension, preparation in pulling away, or all three, she could not tell for certain. His heartbeat, which had struck a frantic rhythm, was beating so fast she was surprised it didn't simply collapse. It was like the wings of a trapped butterfly struggling against a spider's web. She felt Malfoy's eyes on her—the eyes of the entire room, actually, as his officers had begun to take notice of his predicament and some were smirking in amusement— and began caressing his hair with her left hand.

It would be so easy to kill him. She was in the perfect position to and she may never get another chance. But there was no guarantee her jerk would be strong enough to snap his neck, and when she did, there would be at least a dozen Killing Curses in her direction. Hermione knew killing Lord Snape would seal her death warrant, and as determined as she was to succeed on her mission, she wasn't ready to die. That moment of cowardice—her unwillingness to go through with a suicidal mission—was what prevented her from making the killing strike.

Snape's face twisted into a grimace, and he tried to pull away again, and to his surprise—and Malfoy's—Hermione let him, unhooking her arms from his shoulder and leaning on the back of the couch instead.

She knew better than to push her luck. If she pressed herself onto him for too long, he would push back and Hermione's work to get close to him would be undone. She had made progress in leaps and bounds. Better to pull away on her own, to give him space, so that Malfoy would not see the need to keep her separated from him. Instead, she turned to the blond wizard with a mischievous smile;

"Would you like for us to dance, Sir?"

Malfoy's eyes lit up greedily, the way a collector of rare paintings might react to being asked to view a private, exclusive art gallery. But his reply to her offer was modest: "If you wish."

Hermione gestured for Mitsuki to come with her, and the girl scrambled to her feet in surprise, having been caught off-guard by her friends bold actions, and together the two girls pushed the tables away to make room. Hermione shrugged down the shoulders of her tokuemon, exposing more of her bra and guaranteeing the attention of every male in the room, including Lord Snape's. She and Mitsuki pulled out their fans, snapped them open with a practised flick of the wrist, and dropped them to their sides. Malfoy, who had seen this many times before, leaned in to whisper something to Snape.

And then Mitsuki began to sing, her voice high and clear in its childlike reverberance.

"Christine, Christine…"

Hermione watched subtly out of the corner of her eye as Malfoy leaned in once again to whisper something into Snape's ear, though she was now entirely focused on the music they were about to perform. Mitsuki finished, and Hermione waited out the pause between their lines, and then spoke;

"Father once spoke of an angel," she said, her voice rising in clarity as she and her partner began circling each other, as was part of their dance, "I used to dream he'd appear…" Her voice rose once more. "Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here…"

As they completed their first circle, Hermione saw Snape's head turned away, as though refusing to watch. Malfoy was whispering urgently in the ear turned toward him, though Hermione could not hear his words, she sensed he was convincing his friend to at least listen. The darker pair of brows furrowed at this, perhaps in anger, perhaps with some other emotion, but Hermione could see he would not easily change his mind.

"Christine, you must have been dreaming… stories like this can't come true…"

She prepared to add the seductive lilt to her singing that she reserved only on special occasions.

"Christine you're talking in riddles, and it's not like you…"

And they sang;

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant me your glory…"

Snape's face was slowly turning to face them, and Hermione felt the stirrings of victory.

"Angel of Music, hide no longer,

Secret and strange angel…"

Her eyes met his and she felt the warning brush of his consciousness against hers as he prepared to invade the surface of her mind with legilimency. Hermione put up her barriers without missing a note of her song. Clever of him, to have waited until she was distracted by singing… but she had sung this song so many times in so many ways that she could run her mouth and sing it just the same without thought…

"He's with me even now…"

"…your hands are cold…"

She felt a distinct pressure bearing on her now, like a heavy weight; it reminded Hermione of a large predator holding down a pigeon while it prepared to pluck it alive.

"…all around me…"

"Your face, Christine, its white…"

The pressure…

"It frightens me…"

Hermione felt Snape withdraw and locked her eyes on his.

"Don't be frightened."

The song died away, echoing faintly in the room and Malfoy began applauding, unaware of the exchange that had occurred between his lord and favourite teahouse girl, and was followed quickly by his son. The other Death Eaters were blinking in surprise, taken aback by the suddenness of the performance, but they too clapped. Hermione smiled, but her eyes were still locked onto her target's, which stared back, cold and emotionless.

But Hermione knew she had his full and undivided attention.

She brought her fan to cover her mouth, though the upward-tilting corners of her mouth betrayed her smile.

But that was the first step only. She had his attention. She needed his trust, perhaps even his admiration and respect. That was an especially tall order, but given that he was an especially difficult man to kill, she didn't see why the work to dispose of him without getting killed herself should be any less difficult than the alternative of a suicide attempt.

But she had not only made leaps and bounds, she had managed to prevent them from being sent back to square one.

~o~O~o~

Hermione managed to push her disgust aside and, after singing their own, edited version of All I Ask Of You—with Mitsuki playing as Raoul and charming her voice to take on a deeper resonance— and The Point of No Return with the ending cut out at the point just before the Phantom's mask was to be removed and instead moving into a repeat of the ending of their second song, Hermione and Mitsuki both gave their audience low bows—smiling modestly, even though they'd received applause from Mother and Cook who had been watching the entire thing from the kitchen, which was high praise indeed—Hermione moved to seat herself on Snape's right.

She was surprised he was putting up with her as much as he had. But now she only sat next to him, leaning against the arm rest, with about a foot of space between them, and watched him eyeing her warily. She suspected much of her good fortune was due to Malfoy, who seemed to be keeping him in place one way or another. For the most part, he seemed slightly shell-shocked by her, though his face remained indifferent and uninterested. But Hermione could tell that being around her made him nervous; his heart beat in fear at her proximity. If it weren't for the fact that she was one of his best friend's favourite performers, she had no doubt he might have simply killed her out of irritation.

She never thought it could happen, but she found herself silently thanking the gods for Lucius Malfoy.

However, she needed to throw him off guard. His attention was focused on her, though he was still angled away from her—as though hoping she would get the hint to go away—and was discussing the private Potions research he was doing with Malfoy, who probably was interested. Of the money Snape made off of potions he invented, Malfoy—who seemed to not only be his bodyguard in public, but also the person with connections around the world—got a portion of the profits for his assistance in procuring ingredients.

However, his conversation was centered not only around Potions, but also Harry Potter.

"I know the blasted boy has a map of Hogwarts his father and cronies made while at school," he ground out, clearly incensed by this notion. "He knows whenver I go to Hogwarts. I've been working on a potion that will exempt me from the effects of the map."

"Have you tried doxy wings?" Malfoy, it turned out, was reasonably knowledgeable about potions.

"It was an utter and absolute failure," Snape replied sourly. "There was nothing in the potion to bind the ingredients together properly."

Hermione, who had been listening, meted out her interjection carefully, keeping in mind her disguise despite her desire to make a suggestion;

"The simplest things in nature often surpass the best things made by man, magic or Muggle," she said, her voice taking on a musical quality, "spider's web surpasses many bonding materials in beauty, strength, and design." Innocently, she added; "Perhaps your answer lies there?"

She ignored Snape's reply, which was predictably dismissive, but instead focused on the glint of interest in his eyes. She had caught his attention. The die had been cast; either he ignored her and she slipped him something, which was easier to do but more likely to fail; or she garnered his interest, later earned his trust, and then destroyed him.

The latter was more difficult, but if it worked, her success would be almost guaranteed. And since when had Hermione Granger ever turned away from a challenge?

She had thrown in two gambler's dice, doubling the risk. Her suggestion might have merit to his research, but so many things could go wrong. If it didn't work, then he likely wouldn't care to come back. But if it did, he would be interested, possibly choose to come back of his own violation and pay her for her time.

Though Snape's response had been dismissive and biting, Hermione grasped onto the flicker of curiosity making a home for itself in his normally unfathomable gaze. She said nothing else to him that night, but she was nevertheless kept otherwise occupied.

Mitsuru had gotten quite drunk, at Dolohov's insistence, and Hermione stood up to intervene and bring her to the kitchen for a Sobering Potion and solid food before anything disastrous could happen. Mitsuki, who was unfortunately very susceptible to the charms of handsome and well-cultured men like Draco Malfoy, was already upstairs with her guest. Hermione had found a moment before her friend accepted the blonde's request for her solicitation to warn her against it, but her words had been unheeded. And though Hermione was in charge tonight, she didn't have the right to tell them who they could and couldn't sleep with and whose offers they should take. She felt a sinking feeling in her gut as she watched them go upstairs, but there was nothing she could do. She had to remain downstairs to look after the girls who were still serving refreshments and occasionally distract the men from becoming too persistent.

She found them disgusting, but all the same, she was grateful that the elder Malfoy and Snape were not interested in their services sexually. Trying to find a way to distract or turn them away or otherwise persuade them to desist would not be easy, particularly given that they were powerful men used to having their way and being obeyed without question. That and their unanimous sneers of disgust when they observed the other officers speaking or doing something particularly uncouth tended to discourage them from continuing, making Hermione's job just a bit easier.

The night wore on, and Snape was unsurprisingly the first to leave. He stood up, followed momentarily by Malfoy who took a moment to collect his wand-core cane. He turned without so much as another word, as though he planned to leave without even a single good-bye, but Malfoy placed a hand on his shoulders and whispered something into his ear. Snape muttered something back to him, but reluctantly turned around and gave Hermione a terse nod.

Hermione stood up and bowed low before them, thanking them for their patronage.

"Good night, Lucius," she said, addressing the blonde man by his first name. "I hope to see you again soon. You too, Sir," she added, turning to address Lord Snape. Aware that he would probably not appreciate that was clearly a downright lie, she kept it simple, adding pleasantly, "I hope to see you again."

He gave another terse nod and then turned to leave.

Oh, yes. She was looking forward to seeing him again. She was counting on it.


	4. Chapter 4

Life resumed as normal after the night of January the ninth. Snow continued to fall, plaguing the streets of the London Underground in white, blanketing the world. It was deathly cold outside, but inside the insulated walls of the teahouse, it was cozy and warm. Business picked up as high-ranking men, finding that simple Warming Charms were simply not sufficient enough to ward off the cold, stomped inside, tracking snow on the floor—which was promptly vanished by Mother, who always wore a hard smile that never reached cold eyes— and found a table to sit and work. They brought paperwork, reports on incidents that occurred in some obscure branch of London, were busy drafting up laws and figures to turn into their bosses, and found themselves desperately in need of some company.

Many of these men were unmarried.

Hermione would approach one of them, often bearing a gift of tea, warm cider, or hot chocolate, and take a seat next to them, sliding the mug toward them. She would look over their shoulder, often giving suggestions that could be construed as petty but welcome. She would sidle up to them, offering to serve them refreshments or supply entertainment, and more often than not, they would leave the teahouse two or three hours later, smiling broadly despite missing some Galleons from their pocket.

Hermione was not a prostitute in the usual sense—that was, she did not work at a brothel, nor did she work out on the streets soliciting men— but on occasions, she would accept offers. She never brought them up to her room, instead leading them to a private upstairs room for occasions such as these. Sometimes it was the money; more often than not, it was a man who had a good position in Snape's new order but was not an Officer, and Hermione would use the opportunity to extract information from them. Though it was her job, she was very picky about who she chose, and sometimes the sex wasn't half-bad. She always Obliviated them at the end, wanting them to have no recollection of her.

But she never brought them to her room. It was her one sanctuary. It was in her room that she hid documents that she sent and received from the order, made plans, brainstormed ideas, read at leisure, and allowed herself some privacy. And it was also in her room that she had begun making Arithmancy charts, having made a list of all she had observed of Lord Snape—his habits, his behaviour, his appearance, the food he ate, the drinks he took—and plugging it all in to her calculations, trying to figure out how to proceed. Would he return? Was he vulnerable enough for her to slip him a poison unnoticed? Was he malleable enough for her machinations and manipulations to have effect?

She spent long nights working on these calculations, discarding and rewriting them in frustration as she added more variables when they came to her. Crookshanks often sat atop her desk, paws tucked underneath him, watching her through intelligent copper-gold eyes.

Two weeks passed before Hermione's plans began to show any sign of coming to fruition.

It was a particularly miserable day. The world outside the teahouse was practically infused with snow; you couldn't breathe without getting half a dozen flakes up your nose. No one was willing the brave the streets and people were choosing to travel by floo or Portkey, which meant business had drooped somewhat.

Hermione was therefore very surprised when Lucius Malfoy arrived, dressed so impeccably with barely a single snowflake on him (she suspected an Impervious Charm), and approached Mother for a private discussion. As a regular customer, he had stopped by often in the days between now and Snape's birthday celebration. Their voices were kept low, and Hermione could not read their lips, but she sensed that what Malfoy had to say was distressing. She continued to sit behind the counter, helping Cook wipe glasses clean by hand—a very meditative task and she didn't feel like entertaining the customers today— and watched them have their little discussion.

She peered closer. It seemed to her that there was a shimmering form behind Malfoy, nearly invisible, but it seemed to her that it was possible someone was Disillusioned—

She promptly dropped the glass she was holding when Severus Snape suddenly appeared; standing directly behind Malfoy, in the very spot Hermione had been staring at.

The glass fell to the floor and shattered. Hermione stumbled back a few steps and pulled out her wand, glancing up at where Malfoy and Snape were watching her while Mother eyed her fearfully. Malfoy seemed bemused; Snape's face had soured, as though he couldn't believe she was so clumsy as to have dropped the glass. Mother was looking on in the same manner that a wide-eyed meerkat might watch two hyenas closing in upon its fellow.

Hermione carefully repaired the glass, removing the shards that had embedded itself in her leg, and quietly excused herself to retrieve the healing salve from her room. Snape broke away to follow her.

"Allow me to accompany you." It wasn't a question.

Hermione's mask, which was always in place, immediately hardened, solidifying and steeling itself for the task ahead. She bowed low to him in greeting, ignoring the trickle of blood dripping down her leg. "That won't be necessary, Sir," she said, knowing he intended to follow her up to her room. "If you need me, I will be back down in just a moment."

He pulled out his wand and gave it a lazy flick in the direction of her cut leg, and the trickle of blood instantly drew back into the wound before it sealed itself. Hermione blinked in surprise, and was tempted to ask him what spell he'd used—she'd never seen anything so efficient as that—when Snape brought a hand to grip her jaw.

Hermione forced herself not to swallow. Give nothing away.

"I need to speak to you privately."

It had hardly been a disabling injury, but she had been planning on taking it as an excuse to go upstairs and collect herself. She could just as easily have Vanished the blood herself and pressed a napkin to it for a minute or two to stem the flow.

Hermione inwardly winced. She didn't like having her plans interrupted. But she took it in stride.

"This way, Sir," she said, ascending the stairs. "Is there any way I can help you?"

"Take me to your room." Hermione winced again; another direct order.

"Sir, my room is off-limits…"

"Did I stutter?" His voice was dangerously soft. It was the tone Hermione recognized from her days as a student as one that should never be disobeyed.

"Of course not, Sir." They'd reached the top of the stairs and Hermione stepped out into the hallway. She couldn't let him into her room—there was too much he could find. But he had made himself very clear, and she had a feeling that if she went into, perhaps, Mitsuki's room, it would become quite apparent that it was not her's. For one, there were pictures of her family on the wall, and none of them remotely resembled Hermione. She stopped at the door to her room.

She put on her most seductive, winning smile. The one that she'd learned to use when subtly conveying to a man that there was something she wanted very much.

"If you could wait just a moment," she said, opening the door a moment and slipping through. "I can make it presentable enough for an honoured guest." Such as yourself, she added silently.

Snape gave a sharp nod and backed away to lean against the wall. Smiling at him once more, Hermione turned away and shut the door behind her.

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, and she wanted nothing more to slump against the wall to collect herself, but she did not have time to spare. Whipping her wand out, she sent all of her Arithmancy calculations, notes, journals, and textbooks to their secret niche under the floor, pulling out the tatami mat to lift the door up, and sliding it back over once everything was safely hidden away. The entire thing took no more than forty seconds to accomplish. Her wards tingled dangerously against her skin, and she knew Snape was preparing to open the door.

She strode over to the bookcase, making a show of straightening it up.

He didn't even bother knocking. He came in, sliding the door shut behind him, and Hermione turned around, pulling on a look of surprise.

"I apologize for the mess, Sir," she said, gesturing at the bookcase, which was organized in an almost as exacting manner as the Hogwarts Library. "I usually keep it very neat—"

"You must be delusional," Lord Snape said, smirking as though he found her dilemma amusing. "It looks quite organized from my vantage point."

"I don't usually let people into my rooms," Hermione said slowly, brushing a hand lightly against the backing of one of the old leather-bound books on her shelf. "I feel it incumbent to tell you that, other than my sister—" Hermione referred to Mitsuki as her sister, given that she took care of the younger girl like an older sister, "—and of course, Mother, you are the only other person to ever enter these rooms." And the first man, she added silently. She had never brought another man here or let them explore her quarters.

Snape regarded her words dismissively. "Interesting as that is, it is not why I came here to talk."

Hermione could have sighed with frustration. What an infuriating man!

"Your… suggestion last time I was here was rather helpful." Hermione's attention perked at this; he had taken her bait. He added silkily, "I understand that working at a teahouse doesn't allow for much time for personal hobbies, and your skills are wasted."

Hermione had turned away to continue straightening her books—which didn't need straightening, in all honesty—and her eyes narrowed at these words, away from where he could see. What was he up to?

His eyes were roving across the room now, more with curiosity than anything else. The potions on the shelf at the far end of the wall, the books, stacks of parchment, quills that had so much ink splattered over their feathers that they looked quite wretched…

"This wasn't what I expected."

"What were you expecting?" Hermione asked, slowly circling the room.

Snape's eyes were locked onto her as she made her circuit.

"Something far less interesting. This, for example," he said, plucking a phial of dark green potion off Hermione's shelf, "is not something you find in the average dunderhead's repertoire."

"Perhaps I am not as much of a dunderhead as you thought me to be, Sir," Hermione said, smiling mysteriously.

"I knew you weren't a dunderhead the minute your suggestion worked," Snape growled. "This merely confirms it."

"If my suggestion worked," Hermione said, bringing a finger to her lips, "then why have you returned?"

"Perhaps you are not as intelligent as I gave you credit for…"

"No, no," Hermione said, waving a hand dismissively as she came to a stop by his side. "I just can't believe that you would be interested in picking the mind of a slip of a girl such as me. I am, after all, merely a teahouse girl. I serve and entertain as best I can."

She was surprised when Snape brought a hand to finger a stray lock of brown hair. Her reaction was controlled, but quick, as she grabbed his wrist in her comparatively smaller hands, though he did not flinch.

Perhaps Lucius had warned him about her. The blonde man did know Sakura's habits, after all.

"My time has a price."

His lips quirked.

"I have already paid for it."

"How am I to believe you?" Hermione pulled away and circled him until she was on his other side. "I don't trust men. They have a habit of lying now and paying the consequences later."

Snape did not smile at this. Quick as a flash, before Hermione at time to react—which was rather insulting, given how honed her reflexes were—he reached down and grabbed her wrist, his fingers easily circling it in an iron grip. He held it up between them.

"Do you see this?" he whispered dangerously.

Hermione resisted the urge to swallow and instead put on an expression of curiosity-tinged amusement, rather than fear. "Yes?"

"It belongs to me now." He let go, allowing it to drop limply back to her side. "Lucius is making negotiations as we speak."

Hermione's flawless mask did not crack, but it did freeze for a moment, in an expression of shock, before she skilfully morphed it into one of interest. But inside, Hermione's traitorous heart was beating faster than Sakura's should, and for the wrong reasons.

Sakura would be pleased if she knew she had caught the attention of a man with enough money to throw around that he could afford to be her patron.

Hermione was bewildered, feeling like a knight on a chessboard whose rules had been changed so that she could no longer play castle, but could go diagonal. It was confusing, shocking even—and completely without warning. She had expected—no, hoped— he would return. She had not expected him to pay for her so that she was now something akin to his personal call girl. It was expensive, particularly at upper-class establishments like the Magic Eye, and most men didn't care enough to bother with it.

"What do I have that would make you throw so much money around?" Hermione asked with the general wide-eyed curiosity that characterised Sakura.

He leaned into her now, wearing an unpleasant smirk.

"Brains."

~o~O~o~

Hermione later understood.

She was an investment. If she was as useful as she'd been previously, then he would keep using her. If she wasn't, then he could simply withdraw his patronage, cut the strings with ease. If he'd taken her away from the teahouse—and never let anyone doubt that he had the authority to do so—and later decided she wasn't worth the expense, that she wasn't as valuable as he had supposed, he would have to find a way to remove her as a burden.

Right now, she was property. She'd sold herself into the teahouse—where she was admittedly very well treated—and was now a horse that was being leased rather than rented out for a single run. The comparison was insulting, but Hermione had learned to live with it long ago. She didn't care.

She was property. Property changed hands.

She now belonged to Severus Snape.

The only good thing Hermione could see of this—besides the obvious, which was that it got her closer to him—was that he wanted her intelligence, not her body. Most men in his position would do the same with prettier, more promising, promiscuous, girls, not wanting to share them or risk getting a wizarding disease from them, and then when they tired of them, let them go. This was apparently not the case for her.

Small favours.

She had made an impression on him. Enough of an impression that he was willing to throw some money around to see if she was as much of a worthwhile investment as she seemed. After she found out what he was here for, he had questioned her extensively on her education, her knowledge. Hermione denied ever being his student and did her best to leave out knowledge that he had given his students exclusively; instead, she substituted her own research, which seemed to please him more than repeating what he had taught her probably would have. He didn't care about her family or her history, but instead delved and demanded knowledge, asking her what the most difficult magic she'd ever performed was, quizzing her on complex recipes or spells. He thoroughly picked her brain to near-exhaustion, but Hermione knew he was aware that he had only scratched the surface.

He left over two hours later, rather satisfied with what he'd gleaned from her, leaving Hermione to revise her plan of attack.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione was called into one of the unoccupied rooms that night to meet with Mother. The rooms were usually for small private parties, but they easily doubled as a meeting room. If Hermione were asked to attend a party, she would have kneeled in front of the door and waited to be admitted. At other, stricter teahouses, she would have been expected to do the same when given the honour of meeting personally with the proprietor.

Mother had no use for such nonsense. No, that wasn't the right word. What they did wasn't nonsense. It was a careful act that they crafted to appear both subservient and sultry to the men they served. But when they were alone, they were just women again, girls who had all been thrown into the same situation. Some were older than others. They had different jobs. But in the end, all Mother cared that they kept up pretences when they were entertaining, but when they were alone, there was no need to defer to her as though she were a customer.

Hermione opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind her.

Mother was kneeling, legs carefully folded under her seemingly-frail body, at the table. A cup of tea sat untouched by her hands, which were wrapped around it more for warmth than anything else.

"I'm here, Mother," Hermione stated unnecessarily as she took a seat opposite of the proprietress.

Mother's tone was very business-like, very matter-of-fact, as she answered simply, "Lucius Malfoy came by today."

"I know, Mother."

"He was there on behalf of Lord Snape," Mother continued, inspecting her teacup as though it held the secrets of the universe in its gently-swirling watery-brown colour. "He was here to make negotiations on the price of being your personal patron— your  _danna_."

"Lord Snape spoke with me after I took him upstairs," Hermione replied, refusing to meet Mother's eyes, but instead followed the wood grain of the table. "His words were rather indicative."

Mother nodded in response.

"Mr. Malfoy and I spent most of the evening haggling," she continued. "He ended up agreeing to pay ten times the amount he originally offered. And his offer was a reasonable one," she continued with a tight-lipped smile that reminded Hermione distinctly of Professor McGonagall. "However, you are very valuable to this establishment," Mother continued, dipping her head to Hermione in acknowledgement. "Much more valuable to me as a worker than a cash girl." That's what they were called, anyways. Girls who trained as personal entertainers rather than working for a wider audience. They earned money by snagging a rich patron, not helping keep the place in order. "I would much rather Mr. Malfoy had been discouraged by the exorbitantly high price I demanded for you, but alas…" she pulled her gnarled hands from the cup long enough to hold them up as if to say, 'What can you do about it?" It was a gesture of helplessness. "He would not be deterred."

Hermione's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this as her mind already went through the calculations in her head. A reasonable offer for an upper-class teahouse girl, with other considerations such as age, talent, appearance, and temperament, would have made Hermione very expensive to begin with. Ten times that was almost unthinkably high!

But of course, Lucius could pay for it. So could Lord Snape. Or whoever would actually be paying for her. Either of them were prosperous enough to do it without a second thought.

"I asked him what you would be used for," Mother continued evenly, her dull eyes trying to focus on the cup of tea in her hands with some clarity. "His words were, and I quote, 'everything.'"

For the first time that day, Hermione allowed herself to swallow.

Everything.

All of her.

She was his property now. Irrefutably so.

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat and forced it back down. She didn't know whether or not he would choose to call on her for more than just her brains, but she didn't like knowing that if he did, she would not be able to refuse. It was a revolting thought, one that made a shudder run down her spine, but she quickly collected herself.

She'd done worse. She was certain of it. If this was the price it took to get close enough to him to kill, she was grateful for it. It was the only opportunity she'd get.

Mother pursed her lips, and her dull eyes were apologetic. "I'm sorry, Sakura."

Hermione shook her head. "I knew what I was getting into when I came here for work," she replied dutifully. "I will do my job. You did your best—now it's my turn to do mine."

Mother's next move surprised Hermione. The old women placed her hand over Hermione's, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Men like these tend to tire of their toys quickly," she said quietly, "I don't expect it will last forever. You will bore them soon enough."

Hermione smiled back, as though relieved, but her thoughts ran the opposite way.

_That's what I'm afraid of…_

What happened if he grew tired of her before she had gotten close enough to carry out her mission?

~o~O~o~

On the first day of February, Lord Snape arrived at the teahouse, flanked closely by his ever-present bodyguard. Hermione, who had been forewarned of his arrival, waited until one of the serving girls had directed Snape and Malfoy to one of the private rooms before Hermione moved to kneel before the door, waiting to be admitted.

Snape stiffly gestured for her to enter—and for Merlin's sake, to shut the damn door behind her— before gesturing her to sit at the table with them. Hermione was relieved by Malfoy's presence, for it meant that propriety would be expected. Politeness would be her shield while dealing with the man.

Snape pulled out a worn leather-bound book and slid it across the table to her.

"Read page three-hundred and ninety-four."

Frowning, Hermione picked it up and opened it to the desired page.

She nearly dropped it when she realized it was her old third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts book. Instead she disguised what little surprise she'd shown as interest in the topic written neatly across the top of the page.

Werewolves.

Hermione took a moment to read it, though she probably could have still recited the page by heart to him had he asked, and then set it down.

"What is this, Sir?"

"You are aware of the existence of the Wolfsbane Potion." Snape pulled the book from her hands and shut it, slamming it down on the table. "I am developing a potion to destroy werewolves. Permanently."

Hermione did not like the sound of this, but smiled questioningly regardless. "Permanently how?"

"I have yet to find a way to prevent them from transforming," he said, gesturing at the book, "but I'm currently trying to find a way to stop them from being infectious. Let them die out on their own."

Hermione blinked.

"Interesting, Sir."

"You will be helping me with research."

Hermione nodded solemnly.

"And if you prove yourself useful," he continued, "I will continue to pay for rights as your patron. If you prove to be more trouble than you're worth…" the threat dangled in the air.

"I understand, Sir."

"And stop calling me sir," he snapped.

Hermione sat up straighter, cocking her head almost playfully, though her mind reeled with surprise. He had always emphasized that his students were to call him Sir—particularly when dealing with Harry. It had been his way of exerting control over them. "Then what should I call you? I can't very well call you by your first name."

"You can and will." His tone bordered on a snarl, brooking no argument.

Sensing Hermione's confusion, Lucius cheerfully added, "Anything else will, unfortunately, tick him off."

"You're a loose cannon," Hermione said, eyeing the temperamental man, and testing the waters, "Severus."

"Go fetch tea," he snapped. "Lemon. No sugar."

Hermione dipped her head and stood up gracefully before exiting the room.

~o~O~o~

That evening found Hermione stretched out across her bed, in nothing but a bra and a pair of shorts, reading the books Lord Snape—no, Severus—had given her before he'd left. They were all on werewolves, their history, their attributes, and generally how much of a menace they were.

Hermione suspected she knew why Severus was working on such a potion. Since becoming ruler, he had lost the Dark Lord's control over the werewolf population. They didn't run rampant, but were still a growing problem. Naturally, he wanted to eliminate them; however, given that many of them were people with families, who would be incredibly disgruntled if they were all gathered and executed, he had to find a way of getting rid of them without annihilating them. This was, she supposed, his solution.

Crookshanks sat curled up at her side, the rumble of his purr signalling that he was not asleep, though his eyes were shut and his lips lifted up in semblance of a smile. Hermione reached down to scratch him behind the ears.

"So what do you think?" she muttered to him. "Is what he's after possible?"

But of course, the half-kneazle gave no reply—at least, none that Hermione could interpret.

~o~O~o~

Snape arrived with Lucius every two and a half days to check up on her progress, the notes she'd compiled, her research. Hermione always had something new to give him, some new tidbit that, she was pleased to see, made his cold eyes defrost enough to reveal the curiosity behind them. He snapped at her, but her ideas had merit, and though he belittled ones he obviously thought too far-fetched, there were many others that he would simply not comment on.

Hermione had had enough experience as his student to know this meant he could find no fault with them.

Two weeks later, he arrived without Lucius. Instead of meeting up in one of the private rooms, he demanded Hermione again take him up to hers. Once the door was closed, he let loose a sigh of exasperation, and took a seat on her bed, holding his face between his hands.

Hermione waited quietly until he spoke;

"I hate Valentine's Day."

Hermione realized with a jolt that she had completely forgotten about it. Harry and Ron had sent her a letter just a week ago, but nothing in there would have reminded her. It was all business. And the teahouse never celebrated it—what was the point of celebrating love in an establishment that preyed on the lust of men?

"In fact, I ought to get rid of it… as a holiday… or at least ban it from being celebrated within ten miles of my person…"

"A rather creative solution," Hermione offered, taking a seat on the floor in front of him so that she was kneeling before him, though not quite facing him; her elbows were almost touching his knees. "However, I'm not certain how well that might work."

"I should simply ban it from Britain. For good."

"You'd have a riot on your hands," Hermione replied with a wry smile.

"Do you like it?" His tone was almost accusatory.

"Severus," Hermione answered gently—she'd gotten used to calling him by his first name by now. "I work in a place where it is my job to fake love for the sake of inciting lust. Valentine's Day seems a rather sordid affair to me in comparison."

He snorted at this. "Interesting perspective."

Hermione laughed. It was one of her high, musical laughs, the one that Lucius—flatterer that he was— always told her reminded him of bells. "Trust me, I have no interest in covering the walls in garish pink décor. You're quite safe here, I assure you."

"Small favours."

Hermione could not have agreed more.

She was alone with him. She'd had two weeks to adjust herself to being under his supervision once more, only this time as an adult. Lucius's presence here was unnecessary to her now—it had been protection before, but now it became a barrier between herself and her target. If she could entice him into thinking time alone with her was better than when he had his blond bodyguard with him, she would be a step closer to her goal.

"You're stressed, aren't you?" she asked, trailing a hand up to toy with black locks of hair. Four weeks ago, he would have pulled away from her. By now, she had conditioned him to accept her touch near his head. The prerequisite to, perhaps, snapping his neck, if given the right opportunity. "Ruling an entire country with twelve other men—I haven't any idea how you manage it."

"The Romans managed it with a hundred and more land to cover," Snape replied sneeringly. "Twelve lackeys and one island is far easier by comparison."

"Yes, but I imagine not all of your men are content being lackeys," Hermione replied patiently, now gently stroking his neck. A muscle twitched under her touch, but he did not pull away. "Isn't it hard to rule a country while worrying about being stabbed in the back by the overly ambitious?"

"I forced them to take a Vow." Snape's words sounded almost resigned. "An Unbreakable Vow. Their only purpose is to serve me—work hard, and I will raise them. Shirk their work, and I kill them. If they attempt to kill me, they will drop dead where they stand."

_So that's how he does it…!_

"I still imagine it's not easy," Hermione pressed, working her hands ever so gradually down to his shoulders. He shuddered, unaccustomed to having hands touching his person, particularly in vulnerable places. She saw his left eye, the one that she was almost certain was partially-blind, blink nervously at this. "They must complain. And while Lucius is a good man, I find his son to be rather spoiled." She was taking a risk again, Gryffindor though it was, but she was certain she was able to read him well enough to know where to push him and not to push him.

To her surprise, Snape nodded slowly.

"Lucius is a valuable asset. A good friend," he conceded, looking away. To Hermione, it only exposed his neck to her further. "Draco is lazy, recalcitrant. Oppositional. The only thing protecting him is his father's connection."

"Ah." Hermione sounded understanding, sympathetic even, though not enough to trigger his ire by feeling as though he were being pitied. Her fingers rubbed deeper into his shoulders, loosening the knots of stress from his back. "Quite a dilemma, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Would you like a massage?" The question was bold, but Hermione was practically half-way there anyways.

"Regretfully, not at this time." Snape looked down at his watch. "I have things to attend to—I must leave soon."

Hermione had already been well aware of this, and now she dropped the bait.

"Perhaps next time, then?"

He turned to look at her, scanning her thoughts—well-occluded as they were—as though trying to detect a trick or ploy in her words.

He didn't detect them.

"Perhaps," he agreed. His next words broke the calm that had overtaken the room— "How close are you to identifying the properties of the werewolf saliva?"

Hermione smiled, continuing to work his shoulders.

"I already have." She smiled knowingly at him. "However, you will have to stop by again to get it."

"Two days," he warned.

The bait had been taken. Flawlessly.

"I'll be waiting," she said.

~o~O~o~

Snape was not entirely what Hermione had expected.

He was paranoid, demanding, snarky, quite rude at times, and controlling. He ruled with an iron wand, and his followers enforced his edicts.

Yet, Hermione also saw, through the cracks in his shell, a tired man, as well as someone who had been deprived of comfort. He had taken a liking to Crookshanks, who—to Hermione's disturbance—always greeted him by rubbing his legs affectionately before leaving the room.

She had hated him on sight. For Hermione, hate was a strong word. But as she got to know him, she couldn't help feeling pity for him even as she assimilated the information she had on him and plotted and planned various ways in which she could assassinate him successfully. He was not an attractive man, and Hermione found herself easily irritated by him, but there was no denying that there were certain aspects of him that she would miss once he was gone.

He stopped bringing Lucius with him. They stopped meeting in the private rooms, instead adjourning to her room. The correlation was not missed on Hermione; by coming without Lucius, he was without safety. By being in her room, he felt safe. He would review her work, show her his results, and she would pick them apart and add in her own knowledge. Together, they were starting to sketch out the details of a potion that could very well become a prophylactic measure against werewolf bites. It wasn't precisely what they had been aiming for, but modifications would make it a viable base for Snape's original idea.

Lucius continued to stop by on his own time. Hermione no longer served in the capacity of a teahouse girl, but she would still come out to sing for Lord Snape's closest friend, partnering with Mitsuki. Mitsuki had pouted when she'd found out that Hermione would no longer be working with her, and was insanely jealous of her new status, but was also excited for Sakura, knowing this was a grand opportunity. They both cherished the moments they had together when they performed for Lucius, and Hermione's singing was prevented from growing rusty from disuse, something she prized greatly.

She sometimes sang when she was worked—and if Lord Snape was present, and they were not working on the research, she would sing quietly. At the beginning, he had snapped at her for it, calling her an annoyance, but Hermione would not be discouraged. She had acclimated him to her touch, and she would get him to enjoy her music. He was slowly relaxing in the presence of her room, and if she could condition him to associate her room, herself, and signature aspects of what made up Sakura, she was a step closer. To her, it was all about to conditioning.

It was an ongoing process. He hated it all at first, and then began to develop preferences, which Hermione would lean toward, giving him a compromise that made him feel in control, more as if he had requested it rather than chosen the lesser of a half-dozen evils. But Hermione refrained from doing so while they worked—distracting him at such a time would be a step back, and that was the last thing she wanted. They were progressing so well.

He began to visit more often, sometimes three days in a row. More often than not, they worked. Sometimes, it seemed to her he came simply to escape from the ordered chaos that was his life, and she felt the strings of victory start to play their tune. What had started out as merely an investment to him was fast becoming something akin to a drug. A friendly face, a smart companion, music, a safe place, something it seemed he needed more of each time.

Hermione always held back. She never gave him everything. She always had one more bread crumb to toss to him, one more trick up her sleeve, one more idea to implement that would make his eyes widen in minute appreciation when they compared notes. Far from growing bored of her, his interest multiplied tenfold.

Hermione never left any written traces of her plans anymore—she had burned them all the day she had learned he was to be her danna. He was a nosy man, observant, and if he saw anything, it was all over. Hermione kept all her plans locked inside her mind, where they were safest. He always scanned her mind the moment he met her, and through this interaction—unbeknownst to him—her skills had begun to grow. She was now competent enough to keep him at bay if he chose to delve further than mere surface scans, though if he pushed his hardest, she still had no doubt that he would break her. But she was competent, and for the moment, her plans were safe.

He had her test every cup of tea she brought him—and indeed, she was the only one who ever did bring him tea. He ordered that she be the one to prepare it, too, and she quickly learned to make it exactly as he liked it. She couldn't poison him. She wasn't in any position to come up behind him and wrap her arms around his neck—she wasn't at that stage yet, nor was she strong enough to execute a powerful enough jerk to snap his neck. He was an ex-Death Eater and had more experience with knives than she could ever hope to acquire, and to keep him at ease, she was required to keep her wand on her desk except for when she was using it. She couldn't simply whip it out and  _kedavra_ him.

And yet, she was making progress.

However, there was a tiny spark of regret within her at the thought of killing him. She always pushed the thought aside, but it began to grow, slowly, but surely. The closer she got to her target, the more she knew about him, the more reluctant she was to carry out her mission.

But she had to do it. She had taken it upon herself to do it, and Hermione had never failed a job she set herself yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione stared down at the letter she was currently composing.

_Dear Harry and Ron…_

She didn't know how much to tell them. Before, she had told them everything, omitting only the details that were not strictly necessary. They didn't need to know about the instances where Hermione had gotten information by luring Lord Snape's officials into a bed, interrogating them, and then Obliviating them. However, how was she to tell them about the extraordinary events that had taken place in the weeks between their last letters?

She had to tell them that he was now her danna. The question was how they would react. With the boys, Hermione had to be careful how she worded herself, knowing that Ron was still labouring under the delusion that she was saving herself for him. Hermione had never told him that, but after their—rather heat-of-the-moment kiss—he had told her, before leaving for North America with Harry, that once the war was over, he would marry her. Hermione hadn't even had a chance to set him right, and in over three years, had not found a tactful way to inform him by letter. That could compromise their operations. Hermione was certain that if she let him know that she was seducing Severus Snape, he would blow not only his top, but her cover, by storming to Britain to confront her. She didn't know if Harry was capable of containing him. She had not seen the boys in three years—she didn't have a well-rounded idea as to how they had changed in that time. It was not safe to tell them everything.

However, the information they got from her were delivered to the right sources. That was the important thing.

She carefully penned the letter explaining that Lord Snape was now her patron, her danna, but was using her for potions research, not as a personal call girl. She cited other information, though it was growing scarcer now, given she spent most of her time with the man himself and not his lackeys. Wishing them well, she rolled it up, sealed it, charmed it to burn itself immediately if opened by force or by someone who was not the intended recipient, and sent it off.

Watching the owl leave, she wondered what it would be like to be free again.

She imagined it would be like soaring on silent wings.

~o~O~o~

Snape came in one evening after not appearing for eight days, something that had greatly worried Hermione, appearing extremely agitated. He entered her room without knocking—something he had conceded to her as a common courtesy— and when he shut the door behind him, Hermione was certain that if it were not for the Silencing Charms placed around the room, the sound of the sliding door banging—and then being slammed again when it bounced open—would have reverberated throughout the teahouse. It distinctly reminded Hermione of the times he had slammed his way into the classroom on days he was particularly vitriolic, and it did not bode well.

Crookshanks took one look at him, hissed with his ears flattened against his skull, and then dove under the bed.

Hermione fought the urge to cower, to leave, and to find somewhere safer that lacked the dangerous aura surrounding him, but she kept her calm.

"Did something happen today?" Such an obvious, open-ended question.

"I have rarely had to deal with such incompetent idiots in my life," he sneered, kicking off his boots and sending them flying with a careless, wandless flick toward the corner of the room. "I thought Potter and his little band of Gryffindors were in a class of their own, but I've clearly been proven wrong."

"What happened?" Hermione repeated, laying a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him. He grabbed her wrist, so enraged was he, and Hermione winced at the vise-like grip.

"Dolohov," he hissed, "left for a week without informing us of his whereabouts, and then he returned half-dead after trying to track down Neville Longbottom. I never gave him the orders, never gave him any indication, and he went off and got himself nearly killed trying to capture that blundering idiot."

As far as Hermione was aware, Neville had progressed rapidly and matured into a much more competent wizard in the years of Snape's regime. The fact that he was able to take on Dolohov did not actually surprise Hermione.

"What did you do to him?"

"I can't afford to have idiots like him working for me." Snape's grip on her wrist made Hermione wince again, but she bit her tongue. "He's reckless, useless half the time, I only keep him around because he followed orders—until now."

His grip on her wrist tightened, and Hermione finally let out a whimper. Something seemed to finally register in Snape and he let go of her wrist, as if burned. Hermione pressed her wrist against her hip and discretely rubbed it with her other hand, trying to restart the circulation.

She watched as Snape's eyes dilated, and saw the milky, cloudy part of his left eye clearly now. It seemed to start in the far corner and stopped about a quarter-way across his eye, and Hermione had no doubt it caused vision problems.

She watched fear flitter across his face, unguarded, and knew he was worried that he had not only hurt her, but alienated her as well. Hermione waited a moment to collect herself again before she lifted her hand from her wrist and placed it on his cheek.

He flinched. Her thumb stroked gently, soothingly, and he did not pull away.

Hermione's eyes met his, and she realized that he was finally aware of her. She was able to judge men, the amount of interest or arousal present when she interacted or observed them, and it was obvious to her now that her little trick after he had gripped her arm with such painful force had left him reeling and confused. And now that he was calming down from his near-frenzied rage, he was seeing her for the first time. Not her brains, but her breasts, the way they heaved with each breath Hermione took; her milk-chocolate eyes, which were deliberately curtained by shiny brown ringlets…

He was seeing her as she was for the first time.

And Hermione could easily detect the faint traces of arousal from him.

Her heart stopped. This was her chance. She had finally made him aware of her.

"Your face, Christine, its white," she whispered, her voice taking on the musical edge that Lucius Malfoy cherished so much, although she now sounded more like Mitsuki than herself. "It frightens me…" She carefully stroked the corner of his lip with her thumb, and then reverted to her real voice, a seductive smile creeping over her face. "Don't be frightened."

And then—before he had time to fully register what she'd said or what she was about to do—she kissed him.

It was deep and sensual; precisely what Hermione was aiming for. He stood there, shocked, torn between participating and pulling away, as she pressed both her lips and her body against his. She pulled away slightly to gently kiss first the left, then the right, corner of his lips, an act that prompted him to open his mouth ever so slightly, and Hermione immediately invaded it with her tongue, tasting him, urging him to taste her.

His lips were thin, his reactions unmeasured and uncertain, but Hermione had received far worse kisses from better-looking men. She waited until he began to respond and then pulled away, ending the kiss, knowing better than to push her luck. Her seduction was moving along flawlessly, and she saw it as something akin to training a dog; stop after a good session, reinforce the next day, and then move on to the next trick. It was time to stop.

The pressed a finger to his lips to prevent him from speaking, from asking—no, demanding—what she thought she was doing, and then carefully took hold of his shoulders and pushed him gently back onto the edge of the bed before taking a seat next to him. He seemed to be gazing at her with disbelief, not quite certain that he had not dreamed what had just taken place, when Hermione snapped him out of his reverie.

"What did you do to Dolohov?"

He was calm now—if still panting somewhat from arousal— but no longer full of unventable rage, and he answered as smoothly as he could manage:

"I killed him."

~o~O~o~

The minute Snape left, Hermione felt like celebrating.

Antonin Dolohov was dead.

She immediately felt like penning the good news to Harry and Ron—and possibly Neville, too, if her owl could find him— but soberly remembered that she didn't actually have an owl. Harry and Ron sent her the owl once a month, and until then, she was unable to communicate.

However, that sobering thought hardly dampened her elation. Dolohov was dead. She wouldn't have to fear him any longer. The brute of a man, who had so nearly killed her—and tried to kill her friends— in the Department of Mysteries had gotten what was coming to him.

She would have asked him for the gory details, but an inkling suspicion that most girls would rather not hear such things, and thus needed that as part of her cover, deterred her. However, knowing Snape, she doubted he had done it painlessly. Most likely, he had had a private execution—which would explain why it was not announced in the Daily Prophet— whose audience consisted only of his officers and other higher-ranking officials, as a warning against disobedience. It would be just like him.

Crookshanks chose to come out at that moment, having satisfied himself that the temperamental man was gone, and jumped onto Hermione's lap. Hermione carefully stroked his fur, and Crookshanks sat up straight, gazing into her eyes in a contemplative, considering manner—on some days, it reminded Hermione of a professor in lecture mode— before he reached up and batted her wrist with his paw.

"I know, Crooks," Hermione said, scratching him behind the ear. "But I got what I wanted in the end."

Crookshanks gave her a look that Hermione interpreted as the cat equivalent of raising one's eyebrow.

"I know you trust him," Hermione countered, "I can see it in your eyes and the way you walk. You treat him better than you've ever treated anyone else at this teahouse." She looked at him curiously. "What is it that you're not telling me?"

Crookshanks merely curled up, folded his paws beneath him, and closed his eyes.

This conversation was clearly over.

~o~O~o~

Snape returned the next day. He stiffly entered the room, set his boots aside, and then—in his usual tone of imperious demanding—asked to see the notes she was to have prepared for him that day. Hermione covered her mouth with her fan, smiling, before turning around to the bookcase to retrieve her notes.

They sat down at her desk and made comparisons. The sketch, the outline of the potion Snape was aiming for, was slowly becoming more defined, shapelier, and so sharp in definition that Hermione could almost grasp it and pull it out of her mind's eye. There were just a few things beyond them, things they had not figured out yet, but Hermione had no doubt that they would.

He stayed later than usual, and when Hermione inquired about the meetings he usually had to attend, he sourly answered that Lucius was taking care of them for him.

Lucius, Lucius. Hermione had not seen him for awhile. Oh, the man stopped by occasionally, but he rarely called for Sakura anymore, even when his eyes travelled over her thoughtfully when he saw her in passing, though he still requested Mitsuki. Hermione suspected this was both a combination of the man's increasingly busy schedule and Snape's possessiveness of her. She had seen signs that he really did think he owned her, but when Lucius refrained from asking her to sing for him, Hermione wondered if he was doing this out of consideration for his friend or if Snape had had a word with him. Hermione suspected it was the former.

To both men, she was property. No different than an exotic bird. Snape had had so little of which to call his own that Hermione rather suspected that Lucius was making a grand gesture of leaving what had become one of his most valuable pieces of property alone. It was both thoughtful and insulting—thoughtful of Lucius in regards to Snape, but insulting to her. Hermione felt as though she were in one of the kokeshi dolls that decorated the shelves of the private rooms of the teahouse, locked in a tiny, hollow, helpless doll with the name Sakura carved roughly into the wood. Like a spirit that had been sealed in a decorated jar; and until she broke free, she was as much of a possession as her inanimate host.

It was one Friday however, that it seemed Lucius's self-control broke. He had had a stressful week, too little sleep, and by six o'clock, too much to drink. Not enough to make him tipsy, but enough to loosen him up a bit, work the stiffness from his body, and render his self-control inert.

"Sakura!" he called from across the room, gesturing to join both himself and Mitsuki, who had taken a seat on the couch with him and had been entertaining him with a story. "Come join us." He pointed to the spot on Mitsuki's left. "We could use the company."

Truthfully, Hermione was grateful for the invitation, and she gladly joined.

"So you were saying, my dear?" he addressed Mitsuki, who happily snuggled up against her adoptive sister.

"Well," she said, smiling slyly, "there's been a story around for ages about a demon who haunts teahouses." Her eyes widened expressively. "It's called the Willow Demon. Do you know why?"

"I haven't the faintest clue," Lucius said, smiling indulgently.

"Well," Mitsuki said, pleased at having such an attentive audience, "it's said that geisha inhabit a different world, a different… reality." Warming up to the story, she continued, "Courtesans were thought to be flowers, dressed up in colors and bright patterns, but geisha were willows."

"Graceful and beautiful," Lucius said with a nod. "Some wands are that way."

Mitsuki giggled. Her wand was made of willow. "Exactly."

Hermione took up the story.

"Three years ago, they say a girl came to a lower-class teahouse looking for a place to stay," Hermione said, smilling. She licked her lips to moisten them, and then continued; "we are not geisha—far from it—and neither was she."

"Hey, I'm telling the story," Mitsuki jibed, elbowing Hermione harmlessly in the ribs. Hermione pouted, faking offense, but allowed Mitsuki to continue her tale. "But this girl—she fit right in. She was beautiful, graceful, and moved like a ghost on silent feet. She had the most perfect heart-shaped face, eyes as bright as the moon, and lips like sliced peaches. She outclassed her fellow sisters." It was no uncommon to refer to their coworkers as sisters; they worked so closely together that they became a tighty-knit self-formed family. "Every patron that came through the teahouse fell in love with her, and when she danced, they claimed even the stars came down to watch her. No one knew her real name, but they called her the Dancing Willow."

Lucius had either had too much to drink or had not heard the story before—perhaps both—but something prompted him to sit up a bit straighter, eyes alight with child-like interest.

"The teahouse prospered," Mitsuki continued, "patrons paid exhorbitant amounts for her time. Everyone thought her to be a blessing." A dramatic pause. "But then— something happened."

Hermione smiled behind her unfolded fan, but she did not interrupt.

"One night, long after the customers had all gone, a rich man came in," Mitsuki said, her voice taking on a hushed tone. "He was drunk. The girls and the proprietor asked him to leave, but he refused, threatening to hex them if they didn't present the Dancing Willow to him. She came in to see what the commotion was, and then ordered her sisters to leave. They did so, reluctantly, and she was left alone with the man.

"Her sisters heard terrible screams emanate from the room, but they were helpless to get in, because the Dancing Willow had locked the door," Mitsuki continued, eyes alight with mischief, "they heard the man begging for mercy, and then silence, except for a barely-audible sound that went like this—glub glub glub—the sound of blood pumping out onto the floor.

"She killed him for violating the teahouse," Mitsuki continued in a hushed whisper, "she was a demon—wasn't that what she said?" she asked, turning to Hermione. "The geisha we met two years ago—wasn't that how it went? She was a fox demon?"

"A kitsune," Hermione corrected.

"Yes, that's right," Mitsuki said, waving her hand. "Well anyways—she'd been watching over the girls at the teahouse, because they were poor, but worked hard. She took them under her wing and protected them—and when this man came in and threatened them, she ripped his throat out, spilling his blood on the floor, and revealed her true form."

Lucius's pale eyes flickered between Hermione and Mitsuki, but didn't interrupt, clearly wanting them to go on.

"The kitsune knew she would be hunted for what she'd done," Hermione said, picking up the story, "and so she gave her youngest and favorite sister a willow branch in memory of her, before she disappeared forever."

"But the kitsune had hidden herself within the willow branch," Mitsuki added triumphantly, "and when the younger sister planted the branch in the ground, it grew into a willow. The kitsune protected the teahouse, leaving the haven of her willow tree at night.

"And the teahouse was guarded by the willow dancer ever since."

"Where did you hear such a story?" Lucius asked, awe evident in his voice.

"We met a geisha years ago," Hermione replied, smiling. "She told us some pretty fantastic tales."

"Geisha," Lucius repeated, "I should like to see a real one. Not that you girls aren't lovely enough," he added, nodding his head at them in acknowledgement.

"Oh, you should!" Mitsuki said, clapping her hands together excitedly. "They're about the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

Lucius ordered another bottle of sake and then gestured at Hermione and Mitsuki.

"Sing for me," he said.

~o~O~o~

They were very nearly close to finishing the potion. Severus had enough political prisoners to use as lab rats—much to Hermione's unvoiced disgust, though she couldn't deny that Umbridge and Runecorn, who were among them, deserved what they got—and knew that they would soon hit upon just the right amount of aconite and olive oil needed to balance out the potion's effects.

And then, one day, he didn't drop by. But Hermione was reassured of the reason when she read the Daily Prophet article claiming the invention of a new prophylactic potion designed to make Werewolves non-contagious. The potion was credited to Lucius Malfoy, who had apparently taken the patent out on it, but the article cited that it was to protect his associates' identities. Hermione understood what was happening; Severus made the potion that made his job working to keep the werewolf population at bay easier, and Lucius took care of the publicity. They made an efficient team.

Hermione was not mentioned. She hadn't expected to be. Even if the true identities of the potion's maker were revealed, she doubted she would be mentioned at all.

She was only property.

You gave the general credit for moving swiftly, not the horse.


	7. Chapter 7

Snape appeared the next day, much earlier than Hermione had expected. He knocked on the door before sliding it open. He slipped in, shut it behind him and—to Hermione's surprise—locked it. He never locked it. They were never disturbed—it was, after all, considered bad manners for one girl to walk in on another, particularly when she was engaging a patron,  _her_ patron. Why he felt the need to lock the door was beyond her.

Once checking to make sure it was properly closed, he sat down on the floor and began unlacing his boots. It was such a human thing to do that it momentarily threw Hermione off, but she quickly collected herself.

"No more damned potion to work on," he grunted, tugging one boot off and (rather rudely) sending it sprawling to its designated corner of the room. "Now that we've developed it, other people can brew it. It's just a matter of administering it to the werewolves."

Hermione started opened her mouth to speak, but Snape cut her off, clearly not done.

"There are still a dozen projects to work on," he said, now working on the other shoe, "but I'm allowed a break once in awhile." Now clad in only his socks—which were still black, Hermione noted—he looked up at her. "I'm here to take you up on your offer of a massage."

Hermione's mouth might have dropped open in surprise if it hadn't been for the fact that she was hoping he would take the second part of her bait. The offer had been weeks ago, but it still stood.

There was a way to go through with this. She wasn't just going to ask him to sit down and let her work on him—he could probably find someone else to do that, a professional even, if that were the case. No, it was her job to make it worthwhile. Sensual, rather than merely comfortable. Worthwhile.

Worthwhile had different connotations. In Hermione's situation, given that she was trying to seduce his trust, it would have to be sensual. The thought of working on a man like Snape privately made her shudder—she had no idea what he looked like underneath, and she wasn't certain she wanted to know, but it was necessary. She immediately pulled her mask back firmly in place, in the form of a sultry smile.

Without another word, Hermione stepped forward and kneeled down, making sure her breasts were directly in his line of sight as she began to work on pulling his robes off. His face betrayed no emotion—it seemed to her that he was starting to guard his reactions better when faced with her unexpectedly bold actions toward his person— as she began tugging his sleeves off. His eyes flickered from her face to her chest, as though determinedly trying not to stare at the latter, but Hermione's tokuemon was a bit too revealing for that. He didn't have the self-control to deny himself from looking at something that he was clearly meant to see, and leaned forward to allow her to pull the back off and set it aside.

She saw him hesitate—his wand was in there—but he seemed to reconsider pulling it out. Hermione stood up suddenly, dragging him up with her by tugging on the front of his shirt—possibly the only white article of clothing he ever wore—and nibbling on his chin, kissing it sensuously, while she slid the shirt off of him.

She knew he wanted to kiss her; despite his masked expression, she knew men too well for them to hide such wants easily. But she wouldn't let him, instead teasing him, moving to nuzzle his throat—Merlin, what lengths would she have to sink to for this man?—as she ran her hands over his now-exposed chest, feeling out the scars. Perhaps her earlier assessment of him had been a bit too quick—he didn't look too bad underneath, just a bit pasty…

He surprised her when he pulled away enough to grab her jaw in a fierce, unyielding grip, much as he had done the first day she'd brought him to her room. She absolutely detested when he did that, but she knew better than to pull away. She let him have the illusion of power—even though the grip on her jaw certainly was painful—if that would make him vulnerable enough around her.

He reached down to kiss her, forcing his lips on hers—not that she was resisting, and she certainly had initiated it—and surprised her again by loosening his grip on her jaw, slid it down the column of her throat, as if feeling it out, and then brushed it gently with his knuckles.

This was a man who could be both gentle and rough at the same time, with unpredictable results. Hermione realized this now.

Hermione let him kiss her, but refused to respond. He could take what he wanted, but he would get nothing if he took it by force, and indeed, he pulled away a moment later, looking frustrated.

Hermione smiled coyly. It was the smile of a fox appraising its meal.

"My lips offer sweetness," she told him, taking the hand that had gripped her jaw in hers in a gentle hold and lowering it, "but take without asking, and you will get nothing but a sour taste of what might have been." Her milk-chocolate eyes seemed to hold him in a disturbingly hypnotic gaze. "Be patient, Severus."

His eyes darkened with both anger and arousal, but Hermione would have none of it. She pulled away, slipping behind him, and pressed her hands against his back, gently pushing him forward. She suspected that, if he was angry enough, he might have simply turned around and forced his lips against hers again in an effort to prove her wrong, but the message she'd given him seemed to penetrate his brain. No knowing that nothing short of the Imperius would get her to comply if she did not wish to; he seemed to relinquish the control back to her—reluctantly—and stepped forward until he reached the bed.

He lay down without prompting. He didn't need permission for that.

Hermione followed him and then leaned over to whisper into his ear;

"Close your eyes."

For a moment, she thought he would refuse. He blinked angrily, still furious at her earlier defiance, and she felt his consciousness press up against hers, demanding to know what she was doing. Her Occlumency barriers prevailed against his moderate invasion, and he pulled away, satisfied but disgruntled.

He closed his eyes, chin resting under his crossed arms.

Hermione hardly dared to breathe. She had Snape laying across her bed, in nothing but trousers, in an incredibly vulnerable position, and with his eyes closed. If only she had a knife in her hands, she could easily kill him now, and there would be nothing he could do. If only she'd found a way to slip a knife up her sleeve without risking detection, she would be able to complete her mission right now.

Her eyes travelled over to her desk, which was on the other side of the room. Her wand lay there inconspicuously, an innocent object that was just waiting to be used as a murder weapon. If only.

Hermione resigned herself to her lost opportunity, unless an idea came to her, and carefully pulled herself onto the bed, moved to the other side, and tucked her legs up and under her.

The muscles in his back twitched involuntarily when her questing fingers first touched him, but the trembling—he still shook at times—slowly ceased when her hands began to rub into his shoulders with practiced firmness. She took notice of the pale scars criss-crossed along his back, paying no particularly special attention to them with her hands, though she spent a good portion of her time imagining how he'd acquired them. His body was lean, though she remembered him from her schooldays as being of scrawny build and half-starved. He had certainly fleshed out a bit, and her earlier assessment of him that he looked healthier appeared to be correct. Her fingers worked to undo the coiled knots of muscle that had developed in his shoulders, and though he winced in pain as she worked, the soreness gradually seemed to leave his body.

"You know," Hermione said, in sudden inspiration, "I know a spell that releases knots from your muscles, if you would like me to use it."

Snape seemed to take a moment to consider it, and then nodded. Hermione stood up to retrieve it and returned to her previous position.

She felt him tense up as she cast the spell, but given the nature of the casting, his muscles relaxed almost immediately. He let out an audible groan of relief, and rested his cheek against his arms, clearly in a state of relaxation. His eyes, which had opened while she cast the spell, had closed again, though they still fluttered open nervously now and again. His anger at her had clearly dissipated, and Hermione was now in possession of a wand.  _Her_  wand.

She set it back down next to her and continued working, waiting for the right moment to use it. She had it. She could do it. She was prepared to do it. She _should_  do it.

She continued to work on him, her mind reeling in a dangerously vulnerable way. She hated this man—and yet, she didn't. She hated and liked him in the same way he could be both gentle and a terror. She had to kill him, though she no longer really wanted to, though really, the best way to do this in the kindest manner was to do it while he was relaxed and calm—probably the first time he'd been so since the night of Voldemort's downfall—

She picked up her wand—

"What're you doing?" he mumbled.

"Recasting the spell," Hermione answered resolutely, pointing it at him.

At that moment, a large ginger blur barrelled into her, knocking her wand to the floor. Hermione squeaked in surprise—and Snape shot up immediately in alarm—as Crookshanks crashed to the floor.

"What the hell—"

"Crooks!" Hermione scrambled off the bed to stand up as her cat dashed under the bed and then appeared out the other side, to apparently make a run for the desk. She stumbled to her feet and snatched up her wand before running over to where her cat was now hiding, orange eyes now peering out of the darkness. "What—?"

Before Hermione could even finish, Crookshanks shoved a small, grey carcass in front of her.

Hermione stared at the mouse. There was no way he had just caught that mouse. He had probably been hiding it under her desk for at least a few days. She quickly vanished the rotten thing before Snape could see it properly.

"Thank you, Crooks." Her voice was sweet, but she knew her cat wouldn't be fooled by it.

Her cat didn't seem to care. He looked directly up at her and purred, looking smug and self-satisfied. She set her wand back at the desk, knowing her opportunity was over, and turned around to where Snape was sitting up, his obsidian eyes glaring at both her and the cat.

"He practically barrelled you over for a mouse?"

"He's dedicated," Hermione said, sounding appropriately resigned as she slowly resumed her place next to him and slowly pressed him back down on the sheets. "He's done that a few times before. My cat lacks the meaning of tact."

Snape snorted.

"He would have made an excellent Gryffindor."

Hermione had a feeling that was not a compliment, but nevertheless took it like it was, and resumed working.

When Snape left nearly two hours later, looking oddly relaxed as opposed to his usual stiff posture, Hermione could have screamed in frustration. She'd created an opportunity—practically been handed it—and had failed.

But she would have the opportunity again. He had thoroughly enjoyed her efforts on behalf of his tired and knotted muscles. The only problem was he no longer wanted her using a wand under such circumstances. The effect of being startled could have changed the spell she'd been about to cast, and he wasn't interested in being on the receiving end.

It was insulting, and it prevented her from having the opportunity to simply  _kedavra_  him, but in retrospect, minimal damage had been done. He still wanted to return. He would likely want to re-enact the situation again, given how well it had gone, minus Crookshanks.

The ginger half-kneazle seemed to know precisely what he'd done, and it infuriated Hermione to no end that she couldn't figure out why.

~o~O~o~

She received a letter from Harry and Ron three days later.

_Dear Hermione,_

_The Order met last week, and someone brought up the idea of you seducing Snape. Ron blew his top at that, and I thought it was absolutely hilarious, but Tonks brought up a really good idea. What if you tricked him in being away from his contingent of guards and in a vulnerable position for us to storm the teahouse and kill him? You already told us that he comes without Malfoy anymore—if you can keep working on him, six months from now, we can kill him._

_We thought we should run the idea by you first, of course. You're our top strategist._

_Love,_

_Harry._

_P.S— Snape hasn't shown up on the map of Hogwarts since January, and Professor McGonagall hasn't been able to send us a proper letter since her mail's still being checked. Something's not right. Do you have any idea?_

Hermione carefully reread it, committed it to memory, and then tapped it with her wand and watched it go up in flames.

She sat on her bed, tracing the simple patterns on the bed contemplatively as she went over their proposal.

It was a very good plan. Make her his weakness and then kill him for it. It could work, and Hermione wouldn't be working alone anymore. The thought of seeing her friends again, of having them as backup, of being by their side as they reached victory made her heart soar.

But it was a risky plan. That was the thing.

But then again, all Gryffindors were risky.

And Snape was vulnerable while in the teahouse…

Hermione smiled.

It would work.

~o~O~o~

Snape had not shown up for nearly four days now, and Hermione was worried that something she'd done last time had driven him away when she heard a knock on her door in the afternoon. She always fretted that he wouldn't return if he didn't come back after two days, but it seemed there were always good reasons for it. Work. Visits to Hogwarts. Disciplinary measures to take against people who were not doing their work properly. Public appearances—always with Lucius by his side and a contingency of Officers—or simply because he was busy with a terribly large amount of small things.

She stood up quickly and bade him to enter, and he did so, once again locking the door behind him.

And then, before she could even greet him, he had crossed over to her in two strides, towering over her with his imposing height. She tried to speak, but he seemed to have learned a trick from her, for he shushed her by pressing a finger to her lips. And then he gently—almost exaggeratively so—brushed his knuckles against her cheek before leaning down to kiss her.

It wasn't forceful. Hermione was actually caught off-guard by the gesture, and she responded, bringing a comparatively smaller, more delicate hand to brush against his cheek as she kissed him back. He seemed to have learned his lesson from last time and seemed to be experimenting with what she would allow. If he tried to take something by force, he would end up regretting it. If he tried to acquire it gently, she might give it to him…

Rewarding him for this leap of realization, she responded with apparent eagerness, allowing him the taste of her for a full minute before pulling away.

"You learned your lesson," she responded with a cheeky smile. "Coveted flowers must be treated with gentleness to produce sweeter nectar."

"You and your allegories," he muttered, pulling away. "You are full of them."

"You like them," Hermione said, pressing a finger to his lips. "They are, after all, quite poetic."

"Guilty as charged," he said, darkly amused.

You have no idea, Hermione thought, slipping her finger between his lips. His eyes widened in surprise, but after a moment's hesitation, he immediately began suckling on it, enjoying the taste. The sensation of his mouth on her fingers was exquisite, Hermione was disappointed in herself for admitting, and his mouth was pleasantly warm. He let go after a moment, eyes dark with undisguised male interest, and Hermione knew she had him. Wrapped around her finger, or nearly so.

"What have you come for today?" she asked, bringing the finger he'd suckled to her lips, the picture of child-like curiosity. She watched his eyes following her every movement, and the heat apparent in them doubled when she took it into her mouth, licking off his saliva. "Is it time to start another project, or have you come for something… else?"

"The project is for next time," he responded smoothly. "Today, I simply want your… company."

Hermione smiled, and took his hand in hers as she led him toward the bed.

"That can be arranged," she said, almost forgetting to leave off the sir. "Would you like tea to go with it?"

"That would be acceptable," he agreed.

From the corner, Crookshanks' purring was audible the entire time.

~o~O~o~

Throughout the short time Hermione had known him, Hermione had learned a lot of private things about a man who had, throughout her childhood, been an enigma. He was still a private, intense, rather mysterious man, but Hermione was slowly picking his mask apart, piece by piece. In that short time, she had gone from hating him to pitying him.

And now that she had seduced him—and let there be no doubt that she had, for she highly questioned the idea that he would curl up in bed and talk and ask to be entertained by just any woman, given how paranoid and antisocial he still was. He was attracted to her now, in both mind and body, and she had made enormous progress with him.

Now that she had reached the first half of her goal—seduction before assassination—she was able to sit back and relax, just a bit. It also allowed her time to wonder about him. What had happened to his eye? All throughout their encounters, Hermione had never had a chance to ask him about it. And it was for this reason that the next time she saw him outside of business—or rather, potions research, given that they were now starting on another project—that she sought answers.

They were in bed, and Hermione was stroking his face, something she'd discovered he liked early on, when she asked him;

"Out of curiosity, what happened to your eye?"

His eyes, which had been closed in relaxation, snapped open.

"Why do you ask?" His tone was defensive and dangerous, and Hermione treaded carefully.

"I see it a lot," she answered simply, "and you have yet to volunteer an answer. In the meantime, I am left wondering what caused it."

The eye in question fluttered—or perhaps it was a twitch—at this remark, but to Hermione's relief, it did not incite his temper.

"Potter," he replied at last.

Hermione blinked, disguising her recognizance of the name, particularly when said in such a manner. "Who?"

"Harry Potter," he growled, sitting up so that he was leaning on his elbow. "He tried to use a spell on me that was designed to cut and scar permanently, but it was too weak." Sectumsempra, Hermione surmised immediately. "Despite that, it struck me in the eye. I'm lucky it didn't blind me permanently. It could very well have done worse."

Hermione was wondering why Harry had never told her this. Moreover, how had he broken through Snape's nearly-impenetrable defence?

"It healed, though," she whispered, bringing a finger to gently caress the eyelid. It fluttered in response, but he did not pull away.

His expression soured. "As I said, I was extraordinarily lucky." He looked away. "Essence of Dittany helped too, I suppose."

"You said it didn't blind you permanently," Hermione hedged.

"Part of my vision is fuzzy," he admitted. "Unfocused." He hesitated, and Hermione saw fear cross his face. "Sometimes, I see shadows out of the corner of my eye, as though I'm looking through a foe-glass.

"I never know if they're real." Hermione felt an involuntary tremor run through him. "That's why I go everywhere with Lucius…" he paused to turn his gaze back on her. "Except here."

"You trust me."

He sneered. "I don't think you're trying to kill me."

If only he knew how wrong he was. Hermione let loose a tiny laugh; "I could be, for all you know."

"Somehow, I highly doubt it."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "I don't think I have the word 'assassin' stamped across my forehead."

"I think that would be a bit too obvious," he remarked dryly. "Besides, it would clash horribly with your complexion."

Hermione covered her mouth with her sleeve in an open gesture of surprise. "You certainly know how to flatter a lady."

His expression darkened at this, and he seemed to withdraw, resting back down on the pillow.

"If you say so."

Hermione frowned, reaching down to brush a lock of hair away from his face. "Did I offend you?"

He shook his head.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing," he replied shortly. "It has nothing to do with you."

~o~O~o~

Hermione didn't know what she'd done wrong. She had taken several steps backwards, and she wasn't certain why.

Something she'd said at their last session had greatly bothered him, though she didn't know how her remark could have done that. It simply didn't match up.

He returned the next day, looking sullen and defeated, and despite herself, Hermione's heart broke at the sight. However, the minute the door locked behind him, his dark mood seemed to lift, and when Hermione discovered that he had come bearing gifts, she was left nearly speechless.

He dug into the pocket of his voluminous robes—even now, they were still imposing—and pulled out a plain brown sack, holding it just out of reach.

"The Wereguard Potion was invented for purely governmental uses, but other countries paid rather handsome prices for the knowledge," he remarked dryly. Hermione could hear the coins in the bag gently clinking together as he lowered it for her to take. "Lycanthropy is, apparently, a global pest, and not exclusive to Britain." Hermione mentally snorted at this. He still hadn't gotten over Lupin, had he? "As a result of your usefulness, I'm giving you this with the understanding that you will continue to work for me." His eyes glittered dangerously, though Hermione didn't know why. "Exclusively."

Hermione stared at the proffered sack. She hadn't been expecting to be given any money at all for her work, and by rights, Mother kept the lion's share of the money paid by Snape for the privilege of being her patron, so while she was giving everything to the people who owned her, she was given a very negligible amount in return. This turn of events was rather surprising.

She steadied herself as she took the bag, and almost dropped it in surprise at how heavy it was—he must have put an Undetectable Extension Charm on it—and opened it up to see the glint of gold Galleons reflecting up at her.

She struggled to respond.

"O-of course."

"Good." His eyes bore into her. "Now—sing for me."

"Angel Of Music?"

"Think of Me," he growled in response. "Sing it softly."

And Hermione sang.

~o~O~o~

"He gave you money?" Mitsuki squealed, sitting upright on her bed. Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her younger sister's room. "I can't believe it—he gave you money?"

"About a twentieth of the total revenues," Hermione admitted. "It's not much compared to what he and Lucius are making off of it, but given how much that actually  _is_ , what he gave me was a lot."

"He made a fortune off of it, and a twentieth of that is a killing," Mitsuki said, now sitting in a yoga-like butterfly position. "What are you going to do with it? Give it to Mother?"

"Mother's already making a fortune off of Snape being my  _danna_ ," Hermione replied. "I'm saving it."

"I wonder why he gave it to you," Mitsuki said, pondering the question for a moment.

"Motivation," Hermione answered easily, rocking in her cross-legged seat on the floor. "Motivation by money should keep me working exclusively for him without much trouble trying to rein me in."

"I bet he likes you," Mitsuki added slyly.

Hermione let loose a derisive laugh. "I don't deny I'm important to him as a resource, and I've seen him get it up once or twice—" Not that it had gone anywhere yet, and he had done a fairly good job of trying to hide it from her. The problem was that Hermione was very observant in this particular line of work. "—and perhaps he finds my music and conversation to be entertaining. But  _like_? The man hasn't got a heart to like a whore like me."

"We're not whores," Mitsuki said defensively, red spots appearing high on her cheeks in anger.

"We're decorated and picky prostitutes," Hermione responded blandly. "Some of us have more choice than others and can afford to only take money from the best. But no matter how you dance around it, we are what we are." She looked her sister in the eye. "We're sex objects to them. I'm simply lucky enough to be considered useful in a different capacity."

Mitsuki uncrossed her legs, curling up in a foetal position.

"I never thought I'd end up like this," she said, her voice small, not at all like the bubbly exuberance it usually exuded. "I got average grades at Hogwarts, had plenty of friends, and thought I might get an ordinary job, like working at Twilfit and Tattings. My parents were so pleased when I did well on my OWLs—I never got around to taking my NEWTS."

Here she stopped to look at Hermione.

"I didn't think I'd end up being a high-class whore," she said with more bitterness in her voice than Hermione had thought possible.

"It won't be forever," Hermione offered.

Mitsuki flipped her hair out of her face. "I tried saving up to buy my freedom, but after awhile, I gave up. The money would run out eventually and without credentials, I'd just end up back in another teahouse. Or worse," she conceded.

Hermione looked at her.

"You could run away to America," she said.

Mitsuki shook her head.

"No point," she said.

Hermione's heart sank.

Her sister really had given up.


	8. Chapter 8

Snape arrived long after the teahouse was closed the next night, but Mother did, of course, let him in to see Hermione. You simply didn't say no to the Lord of Britain, no matter how tough or unyielding you were to his officers.

When Hermione saw him, having rushed to make herself presentable after being given a three-minute warning from a wide-awake Mitsuki, he was looking haggard and tired. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and then tugged off his robe and tossed it aside, joined shortly by his boots.

"I would have stopped by earlier," he said, kneeling on the floor to retrieve a book from the pocket of his robes, "but as you can probably guess, I've had a rather rough day, and much of my time was taken up dealing with fools."

Hermione took the book from him and flipped it open. "This couldn't have waited until morning, your majesty?"

Snape scowled blackly at her, his temper exacerbated by his apparent crankiness. "Don't test my patience, Sakura. I am in no mood to deal with your smart mouth."

"Alright," she said, setting the book down on the desk and tugging her hair out of the way. She took a moment to put it up in a messy ponytail to keep it out of her face. "What are we working on?"

"Jigoku Ni Hibike."

"Pardon?" Hermione said, blinking at the unfamiliar name.

"It's a poison that was used during the Edo period of Japan and was originally developed by Satomi Kurogane, a pompous popinjay who insisted on giving all of his discoveries poetically appropriate names," Snape replied sourly.

"So if you already know how to make it, then why—?"

"Because we are going to be  _altering_  it," he snapped, having just the courtesy to leave off the very apparent you dunderhead tacked to the end of that statement. "It is a painful and appropriately named poison; however, I need it to force the drinker to reveal his greatest secrets before he dies." Hermione shuddered inwardly at this; who was going to be his next unfortunate victim? "Combining Veritaserum and other poisons rarely work or not strongly enough." He paused to let this sink in.

"The poison also needs to have identifiable Japanese origins if I am to pull this off," he continued smoothly. "I have analyzed the components of Veritaserum and several prominent poisons, and the Jigoku is the one most likely to be sufficiently compatible for my needs."

Hermione forced herself not to swallow her apprehension, instead keeping it trapped in tension in her throat as she carefully formed her next words;

"If you don't mind my asking," she said, "who is this particular concoction for?"

Snape gave her a nasty look, his face contorting into a half-sneer and half-snarl as his pupils dilated, making the white scar tissue on his left eye even more apparent.

"You'll find out eventually."

The words hung in the air like a horrible promise.

~o~O~o~

Hermione got very little sleep that night. She counted it fortunate that she no longer had to be up early to take care of things before the customers arrived, for if that were so, she would surely drop dead by tomorrow morning at the prospect of opening the doors of the teahouse to the men who would surely be wanting their enchanting and sultry company.

Snape laid out a list of instructions for brewing Veritaserum and the Jigoku and ordered Hermione to begin making a list of which ingredients would most likely cause a volatile reaction. It was grunt work, really, though not the kind of work he would ever have entrusted to students. While she figured out what combinations and compounds would cause a direct mix of the potion to either become a 'glob of useless muck' (his words, not hers), or cause an explosion along the proportions of Neville Longbottom's, he was analyzing what would neutralize such reactions.

He stayed until well past midnight, when Hermione was almost crying for sleep. Her eyes drifted shut more than once while she stared blearily at the names and notes laid out in front of her, and at three in the morning, he finally conceded that she needed rest. It was obvious to anyone who looked that he was more exhausted than she was, and perhaps had a splitting headache to boot, and when he stood up to leave, Hermione made one last attempt to make the night end advantageously for her.

"You're tired," she told him, placing a hand on his arm as he prepared to retrieve his cloak. "I don't trust you to Apparate yourself without splinching."

"And this would concern you because…?"

"I'd rather not have to deal with the news that my  _danna_  has split himself four pieces to the wind," she remarked dryly, struggling to stay alert.

He paused, and Hermione watched him struggle with a yawn. "Why not tell me where to Apparate you? I can take you home."

"You're in no condition for travel either," he pointed out, narrowing his eyes at her. There was a pause, and then;

"I hope you don't mind sharing a bed." He tossed his robes back down on the floor. "I'll stay the night."

"I don't mind at all."

She did mind, actually. But she reasoned that if she couldn't at least figure out where his secret-kept house was, having him stay with her might make him do it more often when they were working on a project, and leave him open for assassination.

Harry's letter echoed in her head persistently.

_What if you tricked him in being away from his contingent of guards and in a vulnerable position for us to storm the teahouse and kill him?_

If she could convince him to do it often, Harry's plan could very well work. He would be tired, disoriented, unprotected, and completely at their collective mercy.

They wouldn't have to kill him. Perhaps they could capture and try him.

No… Hermione thought, looking down at the man who was currently making himself comfortable on his tiny half of her bed, which was really made for one person and possibly a second, if they were laying on top of each other. I couldn't do that to him. Either I kill him or we simply depose him—but I'm not sending him to Azkaban.

Shrugging off her tokuemon, leaving her in nothing but a bra and pants—it was too warm to go to sleep in her robe, but she wasn't going au natural as she normally did— she got into bed, her thoughts continuing along a similar vein. He was a nasty piece of work, but she could also see a side of him that made her feel some small bit of pity and sympathy, and there was no denying she enjoyed her verbal fencing with him. She wanted him rid of power, but she didn't want to see him rot in Azkaban; even without the Dementors, she had no doubt they would refuse to kill him, preferring a life sentence over giving him the peace of death.

She would miss him when he was gone.

But she wasn't going to prolong his agony for a lifetime.

One way or another, there would be no trial for Severus Snape.

~o~O~o~

Hermione was awoken by the sensation of hitting something bodily hard. Opening her eyes, she realized she'd fallen off the bed and hit the floor. Stiffling a groan, and grateful she'd woken up without a sore neck, she sat up and rubbed the back of her head, alleviating the soreness.

She looked over at where Snape was sleeping.

And realized that he was wide awake.

Hermione stared at him for a split second.

"Good morning," she offered.

He glared at her.

"I don't appreciate waking up on the floor," she continued blandly, getting to her feet and brushing her pants off.

"I don't appreciate waking up with the sensation that someone is trying to strangle me," Snape remarked.

"It's a small bed," Hermione snorted, standing over him, her hands placed on her hips. "I don't know if you ever learned the concept of sharing—"

"I don't suppose you've ever learned the concept of personal space?" he countered.

Hermione sniffed, and then gave a wicked smile before hastily covering it with a frosty look. "If that's the case, then perhaps I should just give you three feet of space, never to invade."

"That would be preferable."

"That also means no kisses," she added, with a sultry smile. "And no coping feels."

She watched the gears clicking wildly in his brain, his eyes widening expressively at such a statement. He gazed at her considering this for a moment, before declaring solemnly, "I take it back."

Hermione turned away, crossing her arms over her chest as she stalked over to the desk—as though she were going to review last night's progress—though she did stand with her back purposely and provocatively displayed toward him, sending a very clear signal that he was going to have to work for it.

Of course, he could simply take what he wanted the way he'd taken a kiss from her, but she hoped he had learned his lesson the first time around.

She heard a muttered huff that sounded like, "Women!" before she heard the rustle of the bedcovers being pulled back as Snape got out of bed. She squeaked in exagerated surprise as pale arms—lacking the Dark Mark—wrapped themselves insistently around her waist, pulling her up against him.

The first thing she could think of was shock; this was a man who abhorred body contact on principal, particularly given his paranoia of assassination. She hadn't expected something this drastic. Secondly, while one hand was rubbing circles over her stomach, the other was moving insistently lower under the waistband of her pants, tugging the crotch of her underwear aside, and had insinuated itself between her legs. An incredibly, unpredictably bold move on his part.

She froze, though she forced her body to relax as she quickly thought this through; he would notice the slightest movements on her part. This was certainly breaking the house rule she'd been training him by that stated that if he tried to take something from her without asking, she would do her best to make what might have been a very pleasurable experience thoroughly unrewarding. However, if she gave in now, giving him some visible rein might lower his inhibition around her further, which was exactly what she needed if she was to make this work—

"Nothing to say, Sakura?" She felt his breath on her neck, her back pressed against his belly, and—yes—his morning erection pressed between her buttocks. So he was human, then, if he got this randy in the morning and hadn't even needed a cup of coffee to jump-start him. She'd had her doubts.

Her mind came to a quick decision.

If she pulled away now, he was certainly unlikely to try again any time soon. As much as most of the men Hermione had dealt with enjoyed the chase of a hard-to-get teahouse girl, Snape worked on a different track, and would likely withdraw and become sullen. While a dark and brooding Snape was admittedly attractive on some level, it should not be encouraged. Particularly not when she was actively trying to seduce him.

And if she pulled away and he did try again, he could do so with more force than he was doing now, and she would much rather give him his way while he was in a good mood. It was a matter of personal safety and convenience. Hermione had experience with men who didn't like it when their toys tried to run away, and though she'd hexed (and Obliviated them) without a second thought, there was no way in hell that would go over well with her danna.

It was time to respond. She ground herself against his hand, tilting her head up to look at him, putting on her most mischievous, sultry smile. A practiced smile that was supposed to say several things, though perhaps not meant to be translated as bluntly:  _Look at me. Aren't I appealing?_  Grinding back against him, her smile quirked in a manner that was most definitely inviting.  _Let's play, shall we?_

His fingers clamped themselves over her clit and began twisting it in time with Hermione's pleasure-driven grinding. "I apologize for shoving you off the bed while you were asleep and apparently did not realize you were invading my personal space."

"You'll have to try harder than that," Hermione responded, her voice hitching when he gave her sensitive nub a particularly hard—and actually painful— pinch. "Lose the 'personal space' dogma—you've already invaded mine by being here."

She could practically hear the exasperation in his voice. "I apologize for shoving you off the bed when I made the mistake of not recognizing the distinctly female need to cling and strangle all that is within reach."

Hermione subdued a strangled groan, instead masking it as a surprised gasp, when he stuck a finger in her while still playing with her clit with a painful—but still somewhat pleasurable—amount of force. She managed to get out the words, "Try again," in an admirably steady and appropriately haughty tone.

He growled in frustration at her stubbornness. "I apologize for the misunderstanding."

"And the rudeness," Hermione countered.

She could practically hear the grimace in his voice. "Yes."

"Very well." She uncrossed her arms, bringing one hand to drift behind her where it could press against the front of his pants, hopefully to entice him further. "Does that work for you, then?"

Expecting him to finish her off—or at least try—she was surprised, and admittedly disappointed in the most extreme and neediest sense of the word when he withdrew his hand, ignoring her question, and holding it up to his face for inspection. He looked at it with an almost disdainful sneer, and then wandlessly Vanished the juices clinging to his fingers.

Hermione's eyes narrowed at this odd behavior, but she said nothing.

"Good. Now get dressed." He gestured at the desk. "I will be leaving all of the research material here for now—in the meantime, I have somewhere I need to be." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Don't lose it."

Hermione could have rolled her eyes at this statement, but instead shifted uncomfortably where she stood, nodding dutifully in understanding. "Will you be back later?"

"Yes."

"Will you be staying the night?" Hermione made it very clear to him that this was a loaded question.

He stared at her dispassionately for a moment. "Perhaps."

And Hermione watched him leave, standing with a mixture of bafflement and sexual frustration at his back.

Hermione felt as though she'd been manipulated somehow. And perhaps, in a way, she had and was too Gryffindor to recognize it.

What an infuriating man!

~o~O~o~

It was a mark of how good of a researcher Hermione was that by the time Snape returned, just a little before they were due to close shop for the night, that she had not only analyzed the ingredients that would meet each other in a headlock, but had also gone through a list of basic ingredients that would likely neutralize such a reaction.

"Beetle carapace will likely melt and coat most of the volatile ingredients in a protective layer until they're ready to be joined or nullified," Hermione told him that evening as she presented her findings to him. "We just need to figure out when to add it, how many, and how much. We could of course, try mixing the beetle carapace with the Veritaserum itself and then pour in a few drops to your Jigoku Ni Hibike, but I'm not certain that would work either. You'd need to test it out in your lab properly."

He took the notes from her, perusing them. There was a long moment of silence before he pocketed them.

Hermione couldn't help feeling like a student again, back in his classroom, preparing to turn in homework that she knew she wouldn't get the credit she deserved on it. She frowned.

"Is everything alright?"

"What astounds me," Snape said, crossing his arms, "is how you managed to come up with a viable solution in twelve hours when it would have possibly taken me weeks."

"I had a lot of time on my hands, as you can see."

"That's not it." He was looking at her with those fathomless eyes that carried an odd sort of perplexed curiosity. "I was right when I found you and thought you to be a diamond in a pig trough. An unlikely find."

"I'm shocked—you're actually being quite flattering."

Hermione regretted the words the moment she'd said them, remembering his previous reaction the last time she'd said something similar. But he merely smirked in response. "You were never a Hogwarts student, so I suppose I must forgive you if you don't understand the meaning of the word 'Slytherin.'"

Hermione knew it better than almost anyone, and she smiled indulgently.

"It reminds me of something distinctly snake-like."

"I always knew you were a bright girl." He moved to take a seat on the edge of her bed.

_If he could only say that to the real me._

"How well do you think I would have done in your class?" Hermione asked carefully.

"Outstanding, I suppose," he replied, resting his chin on his hands. "At the very least, an Exceeds Expectation. It's quite a shame that I never got to teach you; you would have done very well." He scrutinized her carefully for a moment. "I would peg you somewhere between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor—rather like myself, I suppose."

This caught Hermione off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I believe I've already explained the concept of Houses and points to you—"

"You did, but you never said you could be in two houses at once," Hermione offered in as naïve a tone as she could manage.

"You can't." He looked at her through slitted eyes. "But the Sorting Hat contemplated putting me into Gryffindor before it ultimately sorted me into Slytherin."

_WHAT?_

"I see."

"As I said before—it's a shame you didn't attend Hogwarts."

Hermione needed to redirect the conversation; it was getting too close to asking about her history. And minute now, he could open that can of worms.

"Who was your best student?" she asked. "Academically speaking, of course."

Snape's face, predictably, twisted into a sneer. "Hermione Granger. She was quite possibly the most engaged, promising student I had in the twenty years that I taught, but she couldn't do much more than regurgitate the things she read from the textbook word-for-word." He closed his eyes. "As much as her intelligence and eidetic memory were admirable qualities, she was a considerable annoyance. I haven't heard a thing about her since the war ended; I suppose she's hiding out with Potter and Weasley, but if my Officers encounter them, she's never with them."

"Perhaps she's terminally ill," Hermione suggested in a hopeful tone.

She watched Snape's face transform into one of dark amusement. "Doubtful. More than likely, she's doing research for them behind the scenes. Potter and Weasley haven't got two collective brain cells to rub together."

He was looking at her carefully.

"Now that I think about it, you two are more alike than I realized," he said. "You could be sisters, if I ever believed she had one. Her hair, however, was a horrendous mess that she never bothered to keep tamed while yours…" he reached out to pluck a lock of hair, holding it between his fingers, "are ringlets. And perhaps a shade or two darker. Besides," he added humorously, "you hardly look like a chipmunk."

Hermione resisted the urge to flush with embarrassment and anger, instead acting as though the praise had gone to her head, presenting it as a blush of pride rather than for what it truly was. He released the curl from between his fingers and it bounced back like a coiled spring.

He spoke;

"I would like to say that if you were my student, you would have ended up in my House," he said conversationally, "but you're too much the fox for that—I'd imagine you'd fit better in Gryffindor. But you would have been the sneakiest of the lot."

"I'm under the impression Potter and his friends got in trouble often," Hermione offered, reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind his ear.

"Troublemaking does not equate cunning."

"I wasn't suggesting that, given the two are generally mutually exclusive."

"Of course not."

Hermione chose this moment to make a move, wanting to get off the dangerous topic they'd been traversing. She gripped Snape's shoulders, causing him to flinch in surprise for a moment though his face betrayed very little, and swung one leg over his lap.

"You said Gryffindors were bold," she told him, her eyes only inches from his rather startled ones. "I know Slytherins are more your type, but I get the sense you like us just the same."

His eyes narrowed at her, taking the situation in with the contemplative calmness of a general assessing an opponent who has made a very brash move.

"It is virtuous to not like something you cannot have for fear that loving it will cause your downfall," he said.

"I didn't know you were a virtuous man," Hermione murmured.

"I'm not," he responded, pulling her more fully onto his lap, and Hermione felt one hand come around behind her back and slide down just above her waist. He was testing her, knowing that she might very well be testing him. "But I've learned painful lessons in the past."

"Don't tell me you fell in love with a Gryffindor already!" Hermione chided.

His face immediately soured, and his hand withdrew. "Yes."

"Who?" Hermione asked, infusing her voice with curiosity though she knew that she was now traversing dangerous territory. But a spy took risks. And perhaps this Gryffindor was still his weakness, and could be exploited—

His expression twisted almost painfully, but he answered nevertheless.

"Lily Evans."

It took a full minute for the name to sink in. Had Hermione not been a practiced Occlumens and extraordinarily good at masking her expression, her jaw might have unhinged itself and hit the floor with a comical thud, such was the level of her shock. Instead, she forced herself to merely look at him with a hint of passive curiosity.

"Harry Potter's mum?"

His face twisted into a sneer.

"Yes."

That clinched it. Hermione's lift had just turned upside-down.

"But you called her a Mudblood," she said, realizing too late that he would want to know precisely where she'd learned that. She paused for a moment to let it sink in rather than try to rectify it; if she did, he would become suspicious.

His eyes, as predicted, narrowed dangerously. "And where did you hear that?"

Hermione chose her victim.

"Oh, your Officer—Mulciber had too much wine and it loosened his tongue," she replied carelessly, apparently more focused on stroking his hair than worrying that she'd just dug a hole for herself. "He was gossiping about it with Mitsuki. I overheard."

Snape relaxed marginally, and Hermione suspected that Mulciber would be in trouble now. She'd picked him for several reasons. Mulciber had drunk a good bit of wine back in January, and there was no way he would remember what he'd said some several months later. Secondly, he had been a student at Hogwarts at the same time as Snape and would therefore know about the incident in question, having almost certainly witnessed it, if not at least heard the gossip that must have been circulated through the school. And fourth—he was her second prime target, aside from Snape. Macnair was currently at the top, but as she couldn't see a killshot opening with him as she did with Mulciber, she was going with the safer and more certain choice.

She hoped he met the same fate as Dolohov. What irony it would be, if Snape took out his own Officers.

She brushed some locks of hair out of his face.

"But you called her a Mudblood," she repeated, caressing his cheek in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "Didn't you?"

His face immediately soured again, and he shifted for a moment, reaching over for his wand—which he'd begun keeping on the bookridden bedside table during his visits—and Hermione sat there, stunned, when she found his wand pointing directly between her eyes. Had she pushed him too far?

"I should have done this months ago," he growled.

_He's going to kill me._

_Don't move,_  She told herself. _Keep looking surprised._

"Tell me, do you gossip about what we do with your sisters?"

"No," Hermione responded honestly. For the first time, she allowed herself to swallow in fear. "Everything here is confidential—though I did tell Mitsuki about the money you gave me," she added, slowly pulling her hand away from his face. "I've not breathed a word about anything you've said or done while with me."

He gave his wand a lazy flick, and—ignoring the instinct to push him away or try to wrap her hands around his throat—Hermione shut her eyes tightly against what she predicted would be a flash of green light. She half believed he wasn't going to kill her, and half thought she was actually about to die—

A tingle of magic washed over her, wrapping itself around her tongue, constricting it like a snake around a struggling mouse, and then she felt it slide down her throat, wrapping itself around her chest as though it might strangle her at any moment. And then the sensation vanished, and Hermione opened her eyes.

"What…?"

His face was impassive. "I've spelled you to silence."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, absorbing what he'd just said, before angrily pushing herself off of him, outraged, yanking his hand away from her back. "I've never spoken a word about you to anyone—I've not gossiped nor speculated about you with any of them—I've done nothing to earn your suspicion!"

He stood up, sneering at her. "As I said, I forgot to do this months ago."

"Why?" Hermione snapped. "Are you so paranoid that you think everyone's out to get you?"

Snape's temper flared up, and for a moment, Hermione though she'd pushed him too far, but then he seemed to defuse.

"Sakura," he said, "the fact is that most people are out to get me. Even my men, who I had to drag an Unbreakable Vow from—they hate me, and as you pointed out, they do talk."

"Then spell them to silence!"

"I'll have to now!" He looked agitated. "But I have to cover every leak—and you're a significant threat."

Hermione swallowed angrily.

"If I'm a threat," she bit out, "then why do you keep me around?"

He observed her passively.

"Because you're not as much of a threat as the rest of them," he snapped.

Hermione felt as if they were going in circles, and it was giving her a headache. Grabbing the back of her chair, she pulled it out and sat facing away from him, arms crossed, expression stony. Angry tears welled up behind her eyes, but she held them back, praying that they would evaporate on their own. Now she wouldn't be able to write to Harry and Ron about Snape. She could no longer give information. She was next to useless.

"Fine," she said, with barely concealed rage. She swallowed again, and mentally marked it as the second time she had displayed weakness today. "You have your reasons. There's no logic in you lifting it. If I'm not naturally inclined to talk about you, I shouldn't have to worry about the spell affecting me. And there's absolutely nothing—nothing—I can do to stop you from taking what you want, because for all intents and purposes, you own me. I am now no better than a house elf." She turned to look at him, and added stonily, "Any other precautions you would like to take, Snape?"

He gazed at her, lip curling into a sneer, and turned away.

"Don't compare yourself to a house elf."

"Fine," she repeated blankly, her mind still whirling around the fact that she was now useless as an informant. "Fine."

She felt his hand come to a rest on her shoulder.

"Don't take it personally."

"I won't."

There was a moment of silence, and Hermione could practically hear the clicking of gears in his head. He had underestimated her reaction to his precautionary measures—he had probably thought she would dismiss or accept it, as she had done with everything else. He clearly hadn't expected it to do this much damage to their relationship, business or otherwise. He was no longer thinking suspiciously as to why she was reacting so badly, but was now clearly trying to think about how to rectify the situation.

The silence stretched miserably, and then Hermione felt Snape's hand caress her chin before taking firm hold of it—Hermione dumbly realized that he had a rather annoying habit of grabbing her by the jaw, though he was being quite gentle now—and tilted her head so that she was forced to look at him.

"James Potter had hung me upside down and was hexing me," he told her. "For fun. Lily stopped him."

Hermione's attention was fully fixed on him now, and he continued, "Things might have stopped there if he hadn't been goading her. He liked her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, the bully that he was. Things deteriorated after that. He was torturing me in front of the students, and I was humiliated. I told her I didn't need help from a Mudblood like her—I didn't mean to say the words. Seven years of friendship, and she wouldn't forgive me for that one slip."

Angry and miserable as she was, Hermione could not help her morbid fascination with what he'd just told her. "What happened after that?"

Snape winced painfully. "He took off my pants in front of half the school."

_Oh, my._

"I'm surprised your students never found out."

His face transformed into a snarl. "Potter did, when I was teaching him Occlumency. I threw him out."

Another mystery explained.

"Now you see why I'm spelling you to silence?"

"With such damning information as the fact that James Potter took off your pants in front of the girl you liked?" Hermione's mask had finally pasted itself back together, and she resumed her sultry, teasing act, though her heart felt as though it had sunk through the floor. "Such ruinous information—it would surely be the end of you if the world knew."

"Not only that." Snape was kneeling next to her chair, one arm draped across her lap. "I unwittingly gave the Dark Lord the information he needed to destroy her, and in penance, spent twenty years of my life looking after her brat with the intent of helping him defeat the Dark Lord."

"You were going to help him destroy You-Know-Who?"

"I changed my mind after I discovered what the deranged bastard had in mind for me," he growled. "Dumbledore intended that I die by Potter's hand so that he could become master of the Elder Wand." He closed his eyes. "Not that it would have worked—at the time, killing me would not have given him mastery over any wand except my own. Whether or not Dumbledore's plan went as intended, he was going to use me to destroy my master and then have me destroyed by the same tool he'd had me protect since the boy arrived at Hogwarts."

She was being given a veritable mine of information that she could no longer use. The irony of it was going to kill her soon.

"So you decided to change the plans a bit?"

"I knew how the Dark Lord had to be defeated," he admitted. "I was planning on turning in the Death Eaters to ensure that there would be sufficient evidence that I was planning to help the Order from the start—I wasn't certain that simply their word would be enough." He stood up. "Potter changed everything. If it weren't for him, I might be living a peaceful existence on some remote island doing private Potions research. As it is, I am still attempting to keep this country running without it falling into a complete collapse. We can't afford another civil war."

Hermione stared at him. He gave her a wry, if somewhat bitter, smile.

"I helped create the mess with the Dark Lord," he said, "If I had not joined him, created the potions he needed to assist in making Horcrxues, given him the Prophecy, he may very well have been destroyed long before now. Perhaps I've created an even larger mess. But I feel inclined to clean it up before I settle on some remote island."

Hermione's mouth opened in an 'oh' of surprise. "How are you going to do that?"

"Clean up the economy," he said, shrugging his robes on. He proceeded to begin buttoning them up. "Use the Death Eaters under my command as bodyguards and then when I'm ready to take off and retire, kill them.

"And how are you going to retire without throwing the entire country into chaos?"

"Give it to Kingsley Shacklebolt," he replied. "I'll trick the Order into attempting an attack—make them think my defences are failing. They'll jump at the chance to take me out, and I can flee knowing the Order will take over. Kingsley is the obvious choice."

Hermione stared at him, unable to work her jaw properly.

He was looking at her now.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

Hermione nodded.

"O-of course."

He smiled wryly at her.

"Don't think about it too much. You can't tell anyone."

For the third time, Hermione swallowed.

That was the problem. She couldn't tell the Order now. Her tongue was tied by his spell.

But now she had a little more than an inkling that they had been mistaken about Snape's allegiances.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Severus."


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione sat on her bed, Crookshanks on her lap, brooding quietly.

She had not imagined… not even conceived that things might not be as they seemed. But of course—Snape was the consummate Slytherin. Nothing was simple with him, and now that she couldn't talk, he was clearly using her as an outlet for the things that he kept secret. People often needed a way to vent and she was now his metaphorical shoulder to cry on. The entire situation unbelievable and improbable.

And in the space of that one hour in which Hermione's tongue had been sealed—and when she stared at it in the mirror, she could see the black coils that had wrapped themselves around it, giving her tongue thin, black stripes—she had learned more about the man than she could have possibly guessed from her seven years as a student and five months as his teahouse girl.

She no longer wanted to kill him.

In fact, she was now grateful to Crookshanks for staying her hand. She suspected her cat knew more about Snape than she did and had stopped her from murdering a man for crimes he was not guilty of—at least not entirely. He was still a git, still cruel, rough, and forceful with her and very likely his followers. But there were no denying his good qualities, which were starting to outweigh the bad in her opinion.

She no longer wanted to kill him.

What was her purpose now?

She was no longer useful as an informant. She couldn't even warn the Order of Snape's intentions. And she was no longer poised to be his assailant.

She hugged Crookshanks to her chest, eliciting a mew of complaint.

She was not going to kill him.

But when the Order arrived to do so, she was going to have to stop them.

With her tied tongue.

~o~O~o~

As a result of her Silencing, Snape seemed to tell her just about everything. She couldn't revile or reject him, given that he owned her, and he therefore had no compunctions about telling her things as they were. Surprisingly, his advances became more pronounced as a result, and he expected her to be waiting for him with a kiss, as though she were his wife waiting for her husband to return home from work.

She suspected he was using her to satisfy a fantasy. Of Lily? Possibly. Of himself, living a life where he was not the ruler of Britain, but an ordinary man living a normal existence? Most likely. But as always, she acquiesced, and when they were not working, he expected her to be with him, tousling his hair, running her hands along his body, giving him human contact that he had gone from detesting to desiring; with the exception of Lucius, he had absolutely no normal human contact, not with his followers, not with his bodyguards, and not with his subjects. He craved the normalcy she represented. She was his only good vice.

She realized that she was becoming a drug for him; he would indulge himself with her, feeding on their witty conversation, her innuendous touches and sultry smiles, enjoying his immunity from rejection, and otherwise everything else she could offer. Music. Something pretty to look at. Someone to vent to. She was everything he wanted.

His advances were unmistakable, and though Hermione no longer found him as revolting or reviling as she had the first day she'd met him as a customer of the teahouse, she felt she could not break her mask and simply give in to him. Part of her job was to make him want her, and though she was starting to feel guilty about manipulating him so, she would continue to do her work.

The second project was finished about a month after it had started, and Hermione was horribly reminded of precisely what the potion was for. There was no one to test it on except for lab rats, for Snape had no intention of using political prisoners. Umbridge had been disposed of three weeks before by a cellmate who finally snapped and strangled her or he would very likely have used it on her, poetic revenge for the near-fiasco of 1995.

The test on rats were successful, though Hermione was not certain how one could tell if a rat was spilling his deepest secrets as they squeaked their last, and Snape had informed her that he would not be available for a week. Hermione was grateful for the time, for although she enjoyed his company, the down time would help her to collect herself properly.

Seven days passed. The Daily Prophet was running wild stories, something that was most unusual given that Snape's officers kept them rather quiet most of the time, but the gist that Hermione could get was that Walden Macnair had been poisoned. The rest of the stories were merely speculation. Hermione received a letter from Harry and Ron in that span of time, and she felt helpless as she penned her reply.

_I have… idea what's going on… probably poison. Don't know precisely why yet. Won't be able to tell for awhile… doesn't travel with Lucius to… teahouse_. She was going to use a lot of ellipses and would not be able to write them in direct reference to Snape, but she hoped to at least circumvent part of the spell's restrictions somehow.  _Situation's been compromised, but cover is still thoroughly intact. Unable to speak freely, but the owls are not being watched. Things are… complicated._

And on the eighth day, her danna returned.

He entered the room after knocking twice, and as soon as the door was securely locked behind him, Hermione had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and was kissing him very thoroughly. She had missed him, but she was also dying to know precisely what happened. He shrugged off his robes, as well as his shirt, and lay down on the bed, chin resting on his arms, and Hermione moved to sit next to him and ease the knotted coils of muscle from his back and shoulders.

The room was silent for several minutes, save for the occasional sound of relief from her danna, before Hermione prompted him to tell her about the potion's success.

"Macnair was getting too bold," Snape mumbled into his arms, eyes half-closed in enjoyment. "And he's caused our relationship with a select few countries to become strained. He was too much of a liability. Japan was getting ready to withdraw their support, but after the poisoning—where he confessed to the recent rapes and murders that occurred there during the timeframe of our international conferences—I was able to point out to the Onishogun that all of the evidence pointed to their country as the culprit. They were very eager to resume relations after that, and I got rid of a troublemaker in the process."

Hermione was stunned by the sneakiness and underhandedness he had displayed. He'd manipulated an entire country at the cost of getting rid of a man who had become a liability and proven himself a burden. Two birds with one well-engineered stone. It was mind-blowing.

And Mulciber had mysteriously vanished during a solo potions-gathering expedition on the Isle of Drear.

The number of Snape's officers was dwindling rather quickly, as though they were the last grains of sand in an hourglass.

"The Order will be moving soon," he murmured after turning over on his back and prompting Hermione to prop herself on one elbow so that she could face him properly. "They'll be after my head. Most likely, they'll try to storm Hogwarts if they catch me visiting—all I need to do is appear on Potter's map without my contingent of guards." Musingly, he added, "Lucius knows about the plan. He'll be moving to France, where he's got some strong family and business ties. Draco will likely go with him." He smirked to himself. "The only difficulty will be getting out of Hogwarts alive when the score is about two dozen to one."

"What about me?"

Snape turned to look at her.

"I want you to come with me."

Hermione stroked his cheek. "I wanted to apprentice in Transfiguration or Charms, but I couldn't afford it." Actually, she didn't want to risk Snape seeing her name on the registrar. The contract an apprentice would sign forced them to write their real name. "If I come with you, will you let me help you with your Potions research?"

"For free? Certainly."

"We'll see, then."

~o~O~o~

Snape returned nine days later, in as rotten a mood as she had ever seen him. Hermione could practically see the waves of animosity rolling off of him, and when he entered the room, she actually backed away in fear rather than risk approaching him. This only seemed to foul his mood further, for he reached out a hand for her, summoning her wandlessly from across the room—Hermione felt her feet being dragged across the floor—and while she stumbled to regain her footing, he grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her roughly to him.

"I've spent a week and a half taking care of several distinctly unpleasant situations that have all arisen simultaneously with the Order," he sneered, his left eye twitching as though in pain. Hermione stared up at him, her face a mask of stony fright, though the grip on her arm was painful and she wanted to pull back, get away from him— "I can see it in your eyes that you don't want me here. Why?"

Hermione grimaced as he unconsciously tightened his grip on her arm. The room was hot from the heat of the summer infusing the wood of the teahouse, he was cutting off blood flow in her wrist, and the room was starting to spin just a little. He said something else to her, but Hermione didn't quite catch it, and whimpered in response as his hand tightened yet again.

And then he suddenly let go, causing Hermione to stumble forward unsteadily. She might have hit the floor if he hadn't grabbed her, this time in a less punishing grip.

She closed her eyes, willing the dizziness away, and once she felt steady enough, she opened them to look at Snape, whose expression had gone from enraged to angry but puzzled.

"We really need to talk about you and your habit of holding me in a vice-like grip," she said weakly.

She felt herself be pulled against him again, and this time she welcomed the support, closing her eyes slightly as she wrapped her arms around him, tucking her head beneath his chin. He didn't seem to mind entirely, nor did he seem uncomfortable; and when she felt his hands start to wander lower down her back, she encouraged this change of mood, not wanting to be confronted with his rage again. She kissed him, sensuously, having regained her balance and ability for clear thought, and he responded most eagerly.

She felt his hand move to the front of her tokuemon and slip through the open gap, sliding along her belly. "If I agree to keep my temper in check," he drawled, "can I have this?"

"It's always been yours," Hermione replied, her mask of cheekiness once again back in place. "You own me, after all."

"I'm distinctly remembering—"

Hermione silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips, and then pressed her body more firmly against his, trapping his hand in place between them. She stood on her toes, reaching up so that she could nibble on the lobe of his ear, before purring sensuously: "You only have to ask."

Hoping to retain some control over the situation, she began pulling off his robes, undoing the buttons with a kind of ferocity that she knew would turn him on. It did. As soon as his robes hit the floor, and he was able to tug off his boots so that they could join them, it became apparent that for all those years that he had been her professor, the gossipy speculation of the girls up in Gryffindor tower that he probably didn't have a package to speak was shot in the chest and in the head; not only did he have a cock, but he was also eager to use it.

Her tokuemon was ripped off by his hands with little care as to whether they were still intact or not, and Hermione suspected he hadn't even stopped for a single moment to look at her body; his attention was focused on getting her to the bed, but Hermione once again stopped him by pressing a finger to his lips.

"Slow down," she suggested, slowly getting on her knees to undo the flak of his trousers.

"I have no intention of slowing down," he snapped, though his expression had become pensive. "Unless you'd like to give me relief some other way?"

Hermione wasn't exactly eager to put her lips around a man's cock, particularly since she found it far too submissive and demeaning for her liking—how could she get her customers to respect her if all it took was a bit of money for her to kneel before them with their trousers open? She shook her head and took a step back, sitting down on the bed with her legs spread open in an almost casually inviting manner. "No."

He quirked an eyebrow at this statement, but he wasted no time or words while he pulled his trousers down, and then his boxers, and Hermione suddenly felt like prey under his gaze as he stalked over to her. He looked so very determined, and when Hermione scooted backwards on the bed to give him room to sit, she was surprised when he grabbed both of her legs—though she was thankful it was not in a painful grip—and pulled her back toward him.

She hadn't been wearing a bra, which left him with full access to her nipples, one of which he took into his mouth as he wandlessly Vanished her panties, something Hermione sincerely hoped would not become a habit. The lacy underwear she wore while working was a tad more expensive than the plain ones, and Hermione didn't care for having to buy or transfigure more on a regular basis.

He pulled away, giving her a chance to look at him fully. His erection was heavy and swollen with arousal, weeping slightly at the tip, but it was not bigger or more impressive than the others Hermione had invariably encountered, for which she was grateful; contrary to popular belief, bigger was not always better. He didn't ask her if it was alright as he pushed her backwards onto the bed. She felt a finger probe her entrance, and watched as he brought it to his face for inspection, as though checking how aroused she was. And then, as though satisfied with what he saw, he climbed over her and sheathed himself in her without further ceremony.

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips as he began pumping into her straightaway, clearly not caring as to how she liked it. It didn't bother her, really, given that all the men she'd encountered so far were selfish as to their sexual wants. Why should Snape be any different? He wasn't here to make love with her, he was here for release. She amusingly thought it lucky that he wasn't into using chains from the dungeons of Hogwarts—even that might be a bit too kinky for her.

She gave a squeak of surprise that he either did not hear or ignored when he began pounding into her with harder, faster strokes. Now that she knew why he had checked for her arousal, she was grateful. Had there been little to no lubrication, it would most certainly hurt, perhaps even cause internal damage, and Hermione was aware that most customers wouldn't have cared a bit for that. Selfish about his wants, but responsible enough to make sure his partner wouldn't get injured in the process. That wasn't too bad, given her situation. Most men wouldn't have bothered.

It was over quickly. It had probably not even lasted a full minute. He gave a grunt, his face twisting into a grimace of pleasure, and Hermione felt him shudder as he emptied himself into her. His cock softened while still in her, and he didn't even bother to pull out as he collapsed on top of her, pinning her to the bed with his weight. His body was sweaty, and he was breathing hard from exertion, but Hermione could see a look of bliss calm take possession of his eyes. They were relaxed, half-closed, and as he rested his head on her chest, she managed to wriggle one arm out from under his weight to push a lock of oily hair from his face.

He didn't say a word and Hermione watched his eyes slowly close of their own accord after another minute or two. He was a light sleeper, she knew, and was most likely just dozing. That was another thing she discovered men invariably did; after sex, they either jumped off of her as though burned and prepared to get dressed (though this was the point at which she usually Obliviated them) or they fell asleep right after, without bothering to push themselves off of her.

Snape was thankfully lighter and less bulky than the other men Hermione had solicited. Most of them had been to the build of Viktor Krum without the muscles and athlete's body—stocky in build, and for a small woman like her, very heavy. Snape was wiry and pathetically thin despite the weight he'd put on, which made Hermione suspect that they were marks of starvation as a child and later self-neglect as an adult, perhaps during his years as a spy. But it was to her advantage right now; he was not too heavy for her to lie back comfortably while waiting for him to awaken.

His eyes reopened perhaps fifteen minutes later, and he lifted his head slightly to look up at her.

"Am I too heavy?" Probably the only considerate thing he'd asked her the entire time.

"No," Hermione replied honestly.

He nodded and settled himself back in a resting position.

"I'll be staying the night."

Hermione resisted the urge to giggle at this. Of course he was.

"So I gathered."

~o~O~o~

Hermione was unsurprised when Snape's visits resulted with her lying flat on her back at some time or another. It was a trend that lasted perhaps two weeks before it started to taper off. She wasn't surprised; she was under the impression that he hadn't had sex for years, and given the opportunity presented now, it seemed he wanted to make up for lost pleasure. She couldn't blame him.

She predictably found him most vulnerable after sex. He would be sleepy, his guard would be down, and his wand would be in the pocket of his robes, in a heap on the other side of the room. Hermione also suspected his reaction time would be cut, too, if he was as boneless and sated as he looked.

On one occasion, she had wriggled out from underneath him, convinced him to roll over onto his back, and rested on top of him, observing the calm, almost peaceful expression on his face. She still didn't know what to do with herself anymore; Harry and Ron's most recent letters expressed their concern at her inexplicable situation. And as the mental hourglass that she had conjured for the time of Snape's regime was running out, she wasn't certain what she would do once the war was over. She had done her job. She had spied, seduced, assisted in murder, and become emotionally attached to her danna in a way that was unbusinesslike.

She didn't love him. That was what she told herself. He was a selfish, temperamental man. But there was no denying that she liked the picture he'd painted—prospering on some remote island and living a life in the pursuit of knowledge, with his company. Hermione could not imagine life after the war. Ron still wanted to make a go of things, but Hermione couldn't see it working out. She would never be able to treat Ron as more than just another patron, and she couldn't imagine living the rest of her life pretending that there was more. With Snape, she was no longer acting. The mask and the real face underneath were fusing together most uncomfortably, and Hermione didn't know how to stop it.

She had managed to stay somewhat detached up until now. After discovering his real role in the war, she had become genuinely sympathetic to his feelings and understood him better. She had barely known the other men she'd encountered and afterwards, had Obliviated them. She rarely, if ever, saw them again, and if she did, she never engaged them. This was entirely different, and she had been unable to remain emotionally distant.

She was aware of reasons why she was feeling very charitable toward her danna. Endorphins and chemicals such as oxytocin were probably among the top culprits, and she suspected it was similar for Snape. There was also the fact that she found him, both in personality and intelligence, to be a very engaging man. She suspected that had she been younger, more naïve, she might have fancied herself in love. However, there was nothing romantic about their liaison. She was not as disillusioned as to the reality of the situation.

Which was why she found herself in such an untenable situation to begin with.

She was twenty-three. She wasn't too old to become an apprentice, but things would have gone much more favourably had she found a master to take her on right out of school. She couldn't imagine being a part of the Wizarding World as she had known it as a child. What would she do—get a job at the Ministry of Magic, assuming they still had a Ministry? Work at an Apothecary? Become a Healer at St. Mungos? Be a teacher? She couldn't imagine any of those things anymore. SPEW? That was laughable.

Her life would be turned upside-down. The Order would become the leading political party of Britain and pick up where Snape left off, make a few changes to his laws, and life would settle down at last. The Prophet would go wild, people would want interviews from the great Harry Potter and his friends on how they had saved the Wizarding World for good, and Hermione would never get a moment's peace. She would never be judged on her own merits. And the world would never know the truth, the complexity, about the man who would be written in history as the Tyrant who succeeded the Dark Lord.

She would be expected to marry Ron. It kept coming down to that. The press would make a big deal out of it. The Weasley family would celebrate it. The world would take their marriage to be a good omen. And Hermione would mourn what could have been.

She looked down at Snape's sleepy face.

If she knew Harry and Ron as well as she thought she did, she suspected they would become Aurors for a time, help Kingsley or whoever was planning to take the mantle of Minister keep the country stable, use their press influence to encourage the people into returning to a normal life, and then promptly retire to play Quidditch and start a family of their own. It sounded precisely like what they would do. They had a future. Hermione didn't like the one she knew would be waiting for her.

_You already told us that he comes without Malfoy anymore—if you can keep working on him, six months from now, we can kill him._

Four months to go.

The clock was ticking.

The Wizarding World was waiting.

Hermione suddenly found herself flat on her back, her musing brought to an abrupt halt, as Snape rolled them over and ground himself against her, making it very clear he was waiting for a response from her on other matters.

Hermione smiled before reaching up to kiss him.

~o~O~o~

"I hate summer," Snape muttered two weeks later as he shrugged off his robes. "Gods, woman, haven't you got Air-Cooling Spells?"

Hermione grinned mischievously as she greeted him with a kiss. Pulling back, she added as innocently as she could muster, "But if you're cold, you won't take your robes off."

"Don't be foolish," he growled, casting the spells himself. The room instantly cooled by twenty degrees, making it distinctly more comfortable. "I always take them off." Tossing them aside, he reached into the pockets of his trousers and pulled out a small, unadorned white box and handed it to her. "We will begin another project today. But first—your payment."

Hermione took the box and opened it. Sifting aside the cotton, she pulled out a silver chain, which slithered out of the box like scales before ending in a large, curved tooth that was topped with a pointed, silver cap. The tooth itself was perhaps two and a half inches long, and three centimetres down from the base, the tooth had been encrusted with tiny emeralds the size of a child's smallest fingernail. She looked up at him, awaiting an explanation.

"Japan was very eager to amend international relations," Snape said, smirking. "Basilisks have rows of smaller teeth in the back of their mouth besides their four prominent front fangs. The tooth you see here is one such tooth that was taken from the infamous beast that was found in Yamanouchi."

"I've heard of it," Hermione said, turning the tooth over in her hand, remembering the same Basilisk tooth she and Ron had used to destroy the Horcrux in Hufflepuff's Cup. The venom in this tooth would still be potent, which was why it had a silver cap charmed to stick solidly to it. "The Basilisk that was using the monkeys living near the hot springs as its personal feeding grounds for five hundred years until it finally got taken care of by a Japanese warlock—and then the Monkeys began using the hot springs regularly again."

"Basilisk parts are very rare, given their creation is illegal internationally except in parts of Africa, and they take hundreds of years to mature," Snape lectured, taking the necklace from her and undoing the clasp. "This was one of the few pieces that still remained in Japan's international wizarding collection until now. The others were initially bought or stolen as ingredients, or, like this one, given away." Placing the chain around her neck, he added, "The cap will only come off in response to the owner's intention. However, I don't suggest sleeping with it—it could still poke you."

"Of course," Hermione said, stepping back to examine herself in the mirror hanging above her dresser. In truth, the entire piece was very pretty. But Hermione's mind was focusing on the implications that the cap could be taken off. It meant this could be used as a weapon. Snape was giving her a weapon. Snape, who feared constantly for his life, trusted her enough to give her a tool for killing that had only one very rare, very select antidote. "This is a very generous gift. Thank you."

"It was useless to me with the jewels in it," Snape replied dismissively. "It can't be used for potions now." His eyes glittered appreciatively at her. "But it does look rather becoming on you."

He stalked around her like a panther observing its companion with wary respect, before stopping in front of her.

"There is another matter to attend to, other than our upcoming third project." His face morphed into a sneer, but almost immediately subsided. "Lucius's birthday is in a month, and would like for you and your sister—Mitsuki, was it?—to sing. In short, he has asked that you be present as entertainment."

Hermione didn't mind a chance to sing for Lucius again. But there was something in Severus's tone that caught her attention. "Why, Severus, I do believe that you are jealous!"

"You're mine," he replied coolly. "I don't like sharing."

"Look at it this way," Hermione said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "It's not like he wants me for the same reasons you do. He only wants music."

"I wouldn't be too certain about that," he muttered, turning away sullenly.

"He has never attempted to solicit me before," Hermione reassured him, moving to nuzzle her nose with his. She pressed her body firmly against his, a move that always elicited a reaction from him. "Not even before you became my danna. And if he did, I would refuse."

Snape's eyes closed slightly, his breathing becoming slightly heavier with arousal. "He knows that you are more than just an investment—that you've gone beyond that. He teases me about it every chance he gets."

"Boys do that," she told him firmly, peppering his neck with open-mouthed kisses. "Men do the same. I have a feeling that if he had designs on me, he wouldn't be discussing me with you. He's a smart man, Lucius. The only reason you suspect him is because he's acting as though he has nothing for you to be suspicious of." Smirking at him, she added, "Surely you've teased him about Mrs. Malfoy from time to time?"

"I never dared to when they first married, and I haven't had any inclination to do so now." Snape's hands were now pulling at the sash holding Hermione's tokuemon in place around her waist. "Although I must admit that it is not Lucius I am worried about. He's a Slytherin, but also a loyal friend. We don't touch each others' property." Pulling her arms free of the sleeves, baring her to him, he added, "It is Draco I am worried about."

"What about him?" Hermione said as she reached for his hand, holding his fingers to her lips so that she could suckle them one at a time.

"Draco has no such compunctions," he rumbled, pulling his arm free of one sleeve while the rest of his shirt hung scrunched up on the arm that was currently being held in Hermione's possession. His eyes closed at the sensation of her tongue scraping across the pads of his fingers. "You are property that can still be bought, and though Lucius has done his utmost to discourage him, he is an adult and quite capable of paying enough to have you for one night."

"I wouldn't accept," Hermione replied immediately, pulling away from his fingers so that he could slide the rest of his shirt off. The upper part of her tokuemon had fallen t her legs, still held messily in place by the sash which had not been entirely undone, revealing her upper body in its curved glory. "I have no interest in Draco Malfoy."

"He still wants you," Snape said, his face twisting into a sneer. "He had your sister, Mitsuki, and claims that not only does he want the complete collection, but that you remind him of his classmate, Granger."

Oh, God. "If he hates Granger as much as you claim he does, I have doubts that he would be gentle with me," Hermione told him truthfully, trailing her hands along his belly in a maddeningly slow pattern. "I can't be bought by Draco. I will sing for Lucius, and as he had been a long-time and faithful customer here, I will sing for him as best I can. But Draco—forgive me—will have to look elsewhere for entertainment."

Snape's sneer deepened. "He is not used to being refused."

"Then it will be a learning experience for him," Hermione replied haughtily. "Lucius knows my reputation—even before you, I did not make a habit of taking men to my bed on a whim, and never to my room." Cupping his growing erection in her hands and squeezing it invitingly, she added, "Tell Draco that he is to stay away from me under no uncertain terms."

"Do you think I haven't?" he growled, grabbing her shoulders in a tight grip, though without the punishing force that he had used on previous occasions. "However, I have reasonable doubts as to whether he will listen to me."

"If he asks, I will refuse," Hermione said, undoing the flak of his trousers with one hand. She had been resistant at first, but Snape had insisted, and she now sucked him off if he made it clear that he wanted it. She was grateful, at least, that he didn't seem to gloat about it. "If he persists, I will hex him. If he disarms me," Hermione continued, bending down to press a kiss to his uncovered balls, making him jump slightly, "I will wreck his pretty face with my bare hands. That is my final word on the matter."

Snape groaned. "You are a vicious thing."

Hermione smiled against him, and then took his cock into her mouth.

~o~O~o~

_We managed to lure him out two weeks ago—we almost got him. There's something wrong with his left eye, I'm sure of it,_ Harry's next letter wrote. _It's the same eye I injured the last time we fought. I think I managed to hit it again, but I'm not certain—he fled pretty quickly. I know you're in a difficult situation, but can you at least tell me if I blinded him?_

Hermione stared at the letter in her hand. Severus had not been to see her in two weeks.

Frantically, she pulled out another sheet of parchment and began writing a response.

What had Harry done?


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione was visited the very same day she'd received her letter from Harry by Lucius Malfoy. She was startled by a knock at the door, one that was sharper and more formal than the demanding, insistent knocks of her lover.

"Who is it?" she'd called, hurrying to make herself presentable.

"It is I, Lucius Malfoy," came the familiar voice from the other side of the door. "I come with a request from Lord Snape."

"Just a moment," Hermione said, pulling her tokuemon close together and retying the sash before sliding the door open just enough to slip out and shut it neatly behind her. She looked up at the blond man, whose cold grey eyes were staring down at her with a kind of paradoxical frantic impassivity. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

Lucius brought a hand to rub his tired face, creased slightly with frown lines he hadn't bothered to magick away. "Severus was injured thirteen days ago in a confrontation of sorts. He has been torturing the healers assigned to him and asking for you since he awoke. I have agreed to bring you to him."

"Of course," Hermione said, hurriedly opening the door. "Just give me a moment to get my things together."

"Can't I—?"

"No man but Severus is allowed in here," Hermione said firmly as she shut the door behind her.

Injured. Harry had insinuated that it was an eye wound. If Snape was giving the healers a hard time, perhaps she should bring something with her—he might very well be giving them difficulty on the grounds that he thought them incompetent, in which case she would be the obvious choice…

Stalking over to her new cabinet, which she'd bought with some of the money Snape had given her from the Wereguard Potion, she conjured herself a small bag and began pulling out several corked phials.

~o~O~o~

The Lord's Manor was well-known throughout the Wizarding World. Hidden and protected by more spells than were ever possibly placed on Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, with Fidelius Charm to boot, the only reason anyone knew of its existence was because Snape's Officers were allowed limited access to it. The West side of the house was free for them to roam, but the East side was hidden by a secondary Fidelius. If you looked for the kitchen on the East side while still on the West and had not been made privy to it, you would never find the door.

It looked as though it had been based off of Malfoy Manor and twisted into its more gothic, foreboding counterpart. There were no white peacocks, but if you were lucky—or unlucky, come to think of it—you might find a black thestral or two grazing near the front gates, blank eyes staring out at you from the darkness.

Lucius had checked her bags and her person for anything potentially harmful to his lord, blindfolded her, magically sealed her eyes shut should she care to see through the fabric, and had brought her through the Fidelius charm on the West Half. She stumbled down the halls, trying very hard not to bump into the man guiding her at arms length across the halls, and her hip bumped painfully into the corner of a sharp glass-topped table at some point.

When Lucius finally stopped her, allowing her to take the blindfold off and removing the Sealing Spell on her sight, she realized she was in a room with no doors.

No. That wasn't right. There were doors, but she could not see them. Lucius had done something to make her privy only to the room in which he had taken her. She could not leave until he designated to lead her out the same way he had brought her in.

The second thing she registered was that they must be in a dining room. The wooden table in the centre of the room was long, and there were several chairs.

And at the head of the table sat the most irritable man in existence, though his back was turned to her. He was leaning back in his chair, which had been pushed out from the table, and three healers stood alternatively on either side of him. He looked well, dressed in his usual black trousers and white shirt, and Hermione would have thought there was nothing wrong if it were not for the bandage circling his head.

"Sir—" One man began, holding his hands up placatingly. "If you don't let us near you, we can't help—"

"I don't want your help, you pathetically incompetent dimwit." Somehow, Snape's temper seemed to retain its full capacity for rage, though his voice was noticeably made hoarser than usual from pain.

"We need—"

"What I need," Snape snarled, causing the healer to cower in the face of his rage, "is for you three useless imbeciles to get out—now."

"But Sir—"

"Lucius," Snape snapped, turning around awkwardly in his chair.

Before Lucius could say anything, Hermione had stepped forward, moving quietly behind him and placing her hand on the left side of his face, allowing her fingertips to brush against the black bangs that swung free of the bandage wrapped around his head—

He startled, his head jerking to the other side as though he'd been struck—and he actually moaned at the sudden movement, which had no doubt caused him untold dizziness and pain in his current condition—but when the tip of Hermione's fingers came into the corner of his sight of his still-operating eye, he slowly relaxed into her grip. He said not a word, but for a moment it seemed as though he had forgotten that there were other people in the room as he openly leaned into Hermione's gentle touch, pressing his cheek against her cool fingers. His other eye fluttered close, though whether in a mix of dizziness, pain, or relief, Hermione was not certain.

Hermione's gaze travelled over the three healers critically, observing the traces of blue along one man's jaw, the bags under their eyes, and a yellowish-purple bruise that was peeking out the collar of the second man's robes. It looked as though today hadn't been the first time Snape had lost his temper with them, and she felt a bit of pity for them, being forced to attempt to treat a man who wanted nothing more than to have them figuratively thrown off the Astronomy Tower. She had little doubt that they'd been pulled from St. Mungo's and brought here with little knowledge as to what they were being asked to do beforehand. It was something she could distinctly see Snape and Malfoy doing in this situation.

Hermione pulled her bag off her shoulder and set it on the table, pulling her hand away from Snape's face to empty the contents out onto the table. She heard him growl in aggravation at the loss of contact.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius smirking at the display.

"Sakura." Snape's voice, which had been loud enough to send the healer cowering, had softened into a tone of near-endearment. His head leaned forwards, his visible eye shut tightly as though fighting off pain. "I have the most painful headache I've experienced in nearly half a decade. What are you doing here?"

"Lucius sent for me," Hermione said, gesturing at the blond man still standing behind her. Snape's neck turned painfully in the direction of his friend. "I brought some things that might help."

"You're certain to make more progress than the dunderheads we have here," Snape said, sneering disdainfully at the three healers who had retreated to the far end of the room and were standing there fearfully.

"I need to take the bandage off," Hermione told him, her hands already working on the blood-caked linen. Why hadn't the healers bothered to use a Cleaning Charm on it? "Hold still."

Snape winced, but only pulled away slightly as her fingers gently loosened the cloth from his skin before she pulled out her wand and removed them entirely. It disappeared without a sound, and Hermione was faced with the result of Harry's work.

It was undoubtedly Sectumsempra. No other spell she knew of—or that Harry knew of, for that matter—could be the cause. His eye had been sliced up in the corner, causing an oozing red welt to run from temple to jaw. Blood and tears seemed to leak out simultaneously from the juncture where his eye met the cut, and it fluttered and twitched in obvious pain as it was exposed to the open air. Harry had gotten a direct hit onto his face with the same spell that had incapacitated his eye the first time around.

"Forgive me for asking," Hermione said, as she ran a finger lightly over the blood oozing out of the wound, "but how has Potter managed to get through your defence twice now? You're a very skilled wizard—"

"The first time was the same dumb luck Potter has had with him since he stepped into Hogwarts," Snape snarled. "The second time—this time around—he ambushed me on my blind side."

"Disillusionment Charm?" Hermione asked casually as she pulled out a small bottle containing the Essence of Dittany.

"No." He winced as Hermione applied the dittany to the cut running vertically along his face. Hermione had never known him to be so expressive or vulnerable in the face of adversity, and she suspected it was a combination of the pain and the fact that Lucius would later be Obliviating the three healers present that allowed him to be open with her. "Potter has an invisibility cloak that he keeps with him at all times."

"Where were you?" Hermione watched as the dittany began to take effect, slowly smoothing out the worst edges of the wound. The transparent, yellow discharge mixed in with the blood that Hermione had been clearing away with a conjured towel slowly ceased. Deciding that Harry would likely answer that question for her, she instead added sharply, "Nevermind that." Applying more dittany, she continued, "If we're lucky, the dittany may keep the scarring—"

"Minimal, I know."

"Why didn't you use dittany the moment you got back?"

Snape paused, and then answered sourly, "Lucius had to drag my unconscious body back here." He glanced at his friend, who was determinedly studying his fingernails. "Good friend though he is, he is not as well versed in the healing properties of certain plants as I am—something that might have been easily remedied had he ever bothered to actually read his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi when he was a student at Hogwarts." Hermione couldn't help giggle at that, despite the situation. "He gave me healing potions, but as you can probably guess, they were ineffectual."

"So then you called them in here?" Hermione asked, addressing her question to Lucius while she gestured at the three healers in question.

"It was the best I could do under the circumstances," Lucius said, glancing up momentarily from his fingers to look at her with impassive, cold grey eyes. "When he awoke, we all thought he was delirious when he started asking for you—had I known otherwise, I would have brought you in sooner."

Hermione nodded and continued to apply copious amounts of dittany while simultaneously wiping away the still-present gunk oozing out of the wound. Heal it, but keep it clean. That was a lesson she'd learned while hunting down Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. And what a valuable lesson it was now.

She motioned one of the healers forward, who approached cautiously, and stared down at Snape warily once he was within range of being bodily threatened by a man who should otherwise have been incapacitated. She felt Snape tense, but he merely sneered discouragingly at the man.

"Can you tell me if you think this is going to scar permanently?" Hermione asked him conversationally as she continued to work.

The man took a step back as a cautionary measure, wringing his hands together in a pitiful manner that reminded her almost of Dobby, back when he had been a Malfoy elf. "I can't say for certain—"

"Your best guess is all I'm asking for," Hermione told him.

He continued to wring his hands, his gaze darting between Hermione, Snape, and then Lucius. "I—if we had thought to apply dittany earlier, we might have prevented any scarring altogether. The wound refused to close on its own, which means that using dittany now will probably heal it better than if we had found another means of—of sealing it. But I can almost guarantee that there will be scarring, and he could very well become permanently blind in his left eye."

Hermione nodded. "And bandages? Should I replace them?"

The healer glanced back miserably at his two companions before responding. "I would keep them on at night, but take them off during the day provided—provided he doesn't go outside or expose the cut to unsterilized environments."

"And how long will it take for him to fully recover?"

"Well—with magic, of course, the natural—the natural healing time will be shortened considerably—"

"Just spit it out," Snape snapped, loosing patience.

"A week, Sir." That said, the man quickly backed away, retreating to the wall to join his companions.

"Lucius," Snape said, "it would appear I may very well end up missing your party."

"Doubtful."

Snape sneered. "Well, Sakura?"

"It shouldn't take more than half an hour to heal the cut," Hermione said, observing the line that marked his face growing thinner and less prominent. "But he's right when he said it would take about a week to fully recover—I expect this is the cause of what I assume to be a splitting headache."

"I just want to sleep," Snape muttered, his head leaning back against the chair.

"We could put you back to bed," Lucius suggested.

"No." Snape's eyes closed. "I want Sakura to take me back to her room at the Magic Eye."

"But it's unguarded!" Lucius said, and Hermione watched genuine concern cross his face. She winced as she watched the beginning of a brewing argument. "It has no protection at all—"

"I am probably more vulnerable here than anywhere else!" Snape snarled at him. "My officers are well aware of my weakness—even if they can not turn on me, they may very well find a loophole to take advantage of. Sakura has decent wards on her rooms designed to keep other people out—no one will think to look there."

"You're not thinking clearly," Lucius replied stoutly. "As long as you don't leave the West Half, no one else can get here."

"Lucius—" Snape sneered.

Hermione interrupted. "He's right," she admitted. "My wards are nothing like yours. You'd be better off staying here."

"I'd be better off staying here if I was being looked after by someone even remotely competent."

Hermione looked at Lucius helplessly, who grasped her support gratefully and intervened;

"Sakura can stay here." His face suddenly took on a playful, almost Slytherinesque smirk of mischief. "In the same room, if you like."

Snape was obstinate. "No."

Hermione crossed her arms firmly. "I'm not going to drag you back to the Magic Eye."

"And if I order you to?"

"I'll ignore it on the grounds that you're injured, delirious, and also possibly quite feverish—" she ticked off her points on her fingers as Lucius began rummaging through the contents of her bag.

"You can't disobey a direct order," Snape hedged.

Hermione glared at him squarely in the eye. "If you order me to take you to the Magic Eye, I will refuse. If that's grounds for dismissal, then so be it. But I won't be responsible for putting you in a more vulnerable position than you already are." Lucius offered her a bottle of purple potion with a distinctly milk-like consistency, to which she responded by summoning a black mug and pouring out a dose of the potion into. She handed it to Snape, who glared down at it, as though it were poison.

"Take your medicine," Hermione snapped as she continued applying the dittany.

Snape brought the potion to his lips and took several sips, frowning at the taste. "What did you give me?"

"I thought you'd be able to recognize it," Hermione said, placing a hand on the bottom of the mug and tilting it up just a bit more, causing the potion within to pour into his mouth. He licked his lips contemplatively as she took the mug and set it back down on the table.

"It must be the headache, but I can't think of it—" Snape's eyes closed and he leaned his head back, grimacing. "It hurts to think."

"That doesn't stop you from arguing."

"It doesn't require much thinking."

"Clearly," Hermione said, sharing a grin of amusement with Lucius. "I suppose you'll figure it out soon enough."

His eye—his uninjured one—suddenly snapped open in rage, but almost instantly closed half-way as the potion began to take effect.

"Sleeping Draught," he slurred.

Hermione shook her head as she watched his eyes close completely.

"Dreamless Sleep," she said, handing the bottle back to Lucius, who placed it back in her bag. "It is, and I quote, 'a potion used induce dreamless sleep in the drinker and aid recuperation by speeding up the process.'" She and Lucius exchanged identical grins of relative goodwill. "If you can't even recognize a simple potion, then there's no way we're letting you give the orders around here."

"Very Slytherin of you, my dear," Lucius said as he pressed a hand to his friend's neck, to check that his pulse was still strong. Snape was out cold, head lolling slightly to the side against the back of his chair.

"It was your idea, Sir."

"Thank you for going along with it."

"He's going to be furious when he wakes up, I expect," Hermione said as she brushed a lock of stray hair out of Snape's face.

"If you're done with them," Lucius said, pointing at the three cowering mice in the corner with his cane-disguised wand, "I can properly Obliviate them and send them back to St. Mungo's."

"I think we're done with them for now," Hermione said, turning to look at them. "I don't think we'll need them after this."

Lucius nodded, and then his expression grew into a wide, near-malicious smile.

"Shall I show you to his room?"

~o~O~o~

When Snape awoke, groggy and tired, he pressed his face against the pillow, hoping to fall back asleep. His headache had dissipated, probably the work of a Pain-Relief Potion, for which he was largely thankful. His left eye weighed heavily, as though it had been glued shut, and he felt a stab of misery and rage course through him at the fact that he could very well end up being blinded in his left eye for life.

He adjusted his arm where it was draped around something lumpy, sleepily identifying it as a pillow before he pressed his face back into the sheets once more. The bandages around his eye thankfully had repelling charms on them that prevented them from being mashed into the mattress while he slept, something he would have to thank Sakura for later.

Sakura. She had disobeyed a direct order from him. What was he to do with her now?

The pillow under him suddenly shifted, letting out a muffled noise of surprise, and he realized a bit too late that it wasn't a pillow. He tightened his grip around it, his arms pinning the woman beneath him with the help of his weight. She continued to struggle, and he thought he heard a muted "Let go, Severus!" but he merely growled in response, holding her in place until she ceased moving.

"You shouldn't have disobeyed me, Sakura," he said, burying his face in the crook of her neck. It was warm, soft, and comfortable. She wasn't wearing anything except, perhaps, some underwear. She never slept with a bra. Why couldn't his pillow be half as useful as she was?

"You weren't even coherent enough to identify a simple Dreamless Sleep Potion," was Sakura's muffled reply, as her face was pressed into the mattress. "What makes you think I would have been so careless as to drag you, half-delirious, to a place that would only make you more open to attack?"

"You still disobeyed me." His arms had finally wormed their way around her belly and he tightened his grip, severely constricting her movements. He thought he detected a note of panic in her heartbeat, but it very well could have been something else. Arousal, perhaps, or excitement. This wasn't the first time he'd done something similar to this. But still, he was certain there was an underlying note of panic about her as she realized that she couldn't escape. Lighter than most men though he was, he was still physically stronger than she could ever hope to be.

"I had a brain," she said, moving her face to the side so that she could look at him. "Yours had apparently gone on sabbatical." Choosing her words carefully, it seemed, she continued, "Mr. Malfoy agreed with me that taking you to the Magic Eye was about the worse thing we could do for you. Or anywhere else, for that matter." Attempting to inject humour into the situation, she added, "Except, perhaps, Australia. I hear the seaside is quite nice."

"I still don't know what to do with you." Damn it, his head was starting to hurt again.

"Releasing me, I expect, would be the intelligent thing to do."

"Why?" he countered.

"Because it's obvious to me that you need another Pain-Relief Potion," she answered, twisting her head around the other way. "And I need to check your bandages."

He grunted at this, but relented, loosening his hold on her. She wriggled out from underneath him and held her hand to his face, checking him for any increase in temperature, before sliding off the bed and leaving to retrieve his potions.

He began picking at the bandages wrapped tightly around his head, wanting them off as soon as possible. They were tight—too tight, in his opinion—and he was certain that if he kept them on for much longer, they would strangle his skull. It certainly felt that way.

Sakura returned a moment later, setting the potion down and gripping his wrist forcefully to stop him from continuing his assault on the bandages.

"Idiot." She handed him the Pain-Relief Potion, uncorking it first. "Couldn't you have simply waited for me?"

"Don't call me an idiot," he snapped, downing the potion in six measured gulps. He tossed the bottle aside, where it clattered messily on the nightstand.

Sakura drew herself up in a way that reminded him disturbingly of Poppy Pomfrey—or perhaps Hermione Granger, on those few instances he'd caught her berating Potter and Weasley. "You may be the Lord of Britain, Severus, but you are a man and therefore still an idiot."

"I am not following your logic."

"I wouldn't expect you to." She began picking at the bandages herself, loosening them with a tap of her wand before pulling them off gently.

"I do not appreciate being mocked," he growled, a feeling of frustration and rage infusing him. How dare she act so flippant—she was never this impetuous when he was healthy! Not even after sex, which, he had to admit, was when he was most inclined to let her get away with things he would normally never tolerate. "Don't forget who and where you are, Sakura."

With the view his one working eye afforded him, it seemed to him that Sakura was looking at him contemplatively for a moment. Then the spark that had lit her eyes—something he had quantified as being spirited and not quite tamed, a quality he secretly appreciated in her—died like a candle flame smothered.

"My apologies." He suspected she had been about to tack "sir" at the end, but knew better than to be deliberately provocative when he was in this sort of snit. She silently reapplied his bandages, cleaned up the bottle he had tossed aside, setting it upright, and moved to stand next to the doorway. She didn't utter another word until she had finished.

"Am I dismissed?" she asked stiffly, one hand on the doorknob.

Severus's eyes glittered angrily, and he felt rage boiling from some deep, embittered part of his chest.

"Yes." He leaned back into the bed. "Go talk to Lucius on your way out."

~o~O~o~

"I wouldn't be too worried," Lucius told her, lazily blasting the roses in the garden of the mansion. Every time a rosebud fell to the ground, another immediately grew in its place. Hermione suspected Snape had put those plants there as a stress-relief outlet. She recalled seeing him blasting rosebushes out of the way during the Yule Ball in her fourth year. "He's quite intolerable when injured. As soon as he recovers, he'll no doubt visit you at the Magic Eye, expecting to start whatever research project he's pulled out of our backlogged schedule."

"I don't understand how Potter got the upper hand on him," Hermione said, inflecting her voice with a tone of worry. "He's such a powerful wizard."

"Potter got lucky, as Potter does," Lucius responded, his expression sneeringly disdainful. "And as you've probably guessed, or been informed, Severus has a blind spot to his left."

Hermione bit her lower lip, looking worried.

Lucius hesitated, and then placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Potter used Sectumsempra on him," he told her. "Under any other circumstances, he would have been scarred permanently. As it is, it'll only take him a week to recover. You did better than I would have given you credit for."

Hermione gave a short bow of acknowledgement. "Thank you, sir."

"In the meantime, you're welcome to stay," Lucius said, blasting another rosebush out of his way. The stump shuddered, and then the plant sprouted back anew. "Or you could leave and return to the teahouse."

Hermione gazed thoughtfully into the distance. "I have to take care of my cat."

"The teahouse it is," Lucius said, lazily flicking his wand in the direction of the house. "Go on inside—I shall join you shortly."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Some of you have already read this chapter, or think you have. I've deleted parts of it, and decided to take this story in a new direction. Hang along for the ride!**

**Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own.**

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Upon returning to the Magic Eye, Hermione was immediately greeted with a hug by Mitsuki—who had been worried about her abrupt departure—and had her feet tackled by an extremely concerned half-kneazle, who had apparently not taken her absence well. Hermione reassured them both, made her excuses to her sister, and then tactfully locked the door to her room.

She spent a week—and then two— waiting anxiously for a reply from Harry and Ron that she knew would not arrive for another month, and in her spare time between helping Mother and the other girls, returned to her private studies, which had been severely neglected in the last few months.

Severus returned seventeen days later, accompanied by Lucius. Hermione let Severus in and called for Mitsuki, asking her to kindly entertain Malfoy senior and take care of whatever needs arose, and redirected them to one of the private rooms. Lucius loved their music, but like any other greedy art collector, enjoyed viewing their finest works in private, lest anyone else get pleasure from it.

As soon as Hermione had that taken care of, she returned to her room, expecting Severus to be sitting on the bed as he usually did. She was therefore surprised when she opened the door and was promptly dragged in by the front of her tokuemon. She had enough presence of mind to pull the door shut and set the latch into place as Severus's hungry mouth took possession of hers.

He had not seen her for two and a half weeks. Despite how he'd treated her when she had only been trying to help him, he seemed to expect that nothing had changed between them. Hermione wasn't about to refute that—if she did and he distanced himself from her, her hard work would be thrown back several steps. She let him do what he liked—it was her job, after all, she thought somewhat bitterly—and subsequently found herself once again without clothes and between his body and her sheets.

It was an hour later, after Severus had thoroughly restaked his claim on her—which was what it was, really. It couldn't possibly be classified as anything else—that he sleepily reminded her that Lucius' birthday celebration would be at Malfoy Manor. Hermione had already informed Mitsuki, who had excitedly agreed to the prospect, and both had begun rehearsing, as Hermione's skills had grown a bit rusty.

"I've already agreed to go as entertainment," Hermione assured him, resting her head on his arm and tracing circles on his chest. He liked it when she did that. "You needn't wring out another promise from me."

He scowled blackly at her. "Do you remember the other promise you made?"

Hermione tried for a sense of reassuring camaraderie. "That if Draco Malfoy so much as touches me, I'll string him from a flagpole with Muggle shoelaces?"

It worked. His expression became less haunted, less worried, and he seemed to relax slightly. "Yes."

"Don't worry about it, then."

~o~O~o~

Hermione glanced around at the ballroom, dithering in the entrance with Mitsuki at her side. She remembered this place. No, not this room, but Malfoy Manor itself. In fact, she'd passed the very place where Bellatrix had dragged her from Harry and Ron and proceeded to torture her. She swallowed. She'd learned to deal with Lucius, but this place still held horrible memories for her.

Mitsuki tugged on her hand.

"Sakura, the music's about the start!" she said plaintively. Her face was masked in the same makeup and style as a professional geisha, as was Hermione's, with the exception that Hermione had been given fox eyes and Mitsuki's were exaggerated, making them child like thanks to Mother's gnarled but expert hands. "We're supposed to start with Angel of Music—"

Hermione adjusted her tokuemon slightly. "Alright. I just needed a moment."

"This place is amazing," Mitsuki said with wonder as they crossed to the centre of the room. "I would love to live here."

 _And I wouldn't want to sleep here for a single night even if you paid me._  "Of course," she replied loftily, "It is quite grand."

True to Mitsuki's words, the music started up, and Hermione and Mitsuki—their voices enhanced with a Sonorus spell—began to sing as they moved in time to the story.

_Brava, Brava, Bravissima…_

Hermione's voice, deepened by choice, cut clearly through the room. It suddenly occurred to her that Severus's voice would be much more appropriate for the part, but brushed the thought aside. Falling silent to let Mitsuki begin with the opening—

_Christine…_

And then she returned her voice to normal, for it rang high, clear, and lovely throughout the room.

"Father once spoke of an angel…"

And so they began. They sang, and though Hermione gave her partner her full attention, she was very aware of where Severus and Lucius were sitting, of the men and women that were watching them, scrutinizing them. She caught sight of many familiar faces; some that made her stomach want to churn. Former classmates—Parvati and Padma Patil, who were dressed like elegant statues and were hanging on the arm of some important-looking man, safe in this crowd of crocodiles by their pure-blooded status and pretty looks. Theodore Nott, who Hermione remembered as a weedy boy from Slytherin. Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Warrington, all of whom had not improved in demeanour or looks since she had last seen them.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" Hermione's voice once again took on a deep foreboding tone, one that she had not known could exist until she had begun attempting to sing the part of the Phantom, and Mitsuki, who was taking on the temporary role of Christine for this part, responded. "Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

Mitsuki's voice rang high and clear, like a crystal lake. "Angel I hear you; speak, I listen…"

Severus's eyes were watching her intently, and Hermione felt a bit like a sheep in the eyes of a wolf-headed herdsman who was about to reach out with his crooked cane and drag her back to him by the leg. It was that disconcerting. Lucius, on the other hand, was quite relaxed, sipping wine and talking animatedly to his wife and gathered friends.

Hermione glanced at the expensive floor, wondering how much blood had been spilled on it as Mitsuki began walking toward her as though held by the Phantom's hypnotic gaze. How many bodies had fallen on the floor and had the stains removed once the source was no more? It was chilling, and Hermione shivered slightly as Mitsuki approached. It was easy to forget what monsters Malfoy senior and junior were.

"I am your angel of music… come to the angel of music…" The music in the background turned haunting, and she repeated once more: "I am your angel of music… come to the angel of music…"

And then the spell was broken as she interrupted her own words; "Christine!" Anguished. "Angel!"

And so their dance began.

~o~O~o~

Hermione and Mitsuki were forced to dance two hours to tell the tale properly, with only the two of them as actors to do the job. It was tiring, exhausting, and it was more than either of them had ever been asked to do, but Hermione pressed on, as did Mitsuki with admirable vigour, so desperate was the younger girl to earn the approval of her favourite patron. But even when they finished, they could not simply find a chair and rest their poor limbs. No, Hermione thought bitterly as she watched Mitsuki walk determinedly to one of the tables on legs that should not have been so steady. They were still expected to entertain. What cruelty.

She forced her sore legs to walk her gracefully over to where Severus was seated. Bending over to kiss his cheek, much to the amusement of the gathered guests—it wasn't every day you saw a pretty girl kiss the Lord of Britain—and convinced her aching body to cooperate as she slid gracefully onto his lap. He pushed back his chair slightly to give her room, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, facing the table. She found it the most debasing thing, but it was expected, and it was her job to meet those expectations.

Making herself as comfortable as was allowed, she entertained the seated table with a story of a Bamboo Cutter that she had heard from one of the geishas she had been lucky enough to meet, who claimed it was a story that she had learned from her own parents as a child. In essence, it was a childrens' tale, but it held enough interesting aspects that, when embellished, made it very interesting to the listening aristocrats who had never heard it before.

Her throat was sore, but she forced herself to create inflections with the voice, polishing the tale with appropriate moments of surpraise, curiosity, and wonderment. As soon as she was done, she stood up—silently wincing in pain at her legs, which had grown stiff—and stood up to refill the table's drinks, as was expected.

Draco was sitting between Theodore Nott and his mother. He glanced smugly at her when she approached to refill his wineglass, and Hermione's practiced eye could see all the particulars of his body language; he turned to face her slightly, his eyes were locked onto her breasts, and he was sitting up straight in his chair, trying to make himself appear taller and more important than a slouching figure would have accomplished.

Hermione payed him no mind, gave no visible signal of acknowledgement, and moved on to serve Narcissa and then her husband. She dared a glance at Severus's face as saw his eyes glittering with well-disguised rage. It was strange to see them sparkle, for they reminded her distinctly of the way Headmaster Dumbledore's eyes had twinkled and how the corner of Hagrid's eyes would crinkle with warmth. The two men's eyes had always shone with a kind of gentleness and bright light, but Severus's was an anathema to the trend—his were cold, like black ice, and she had no doubt that cruel tortures that would never actually be carried out for the Malfoy heir were on his mind. They glittered with an ill-disguised predatory gleam.

It was rather frightening, seeing this possessive black mongoose lying in the midst of a dozen or so colourfully helpless masquerade of birds and snakes.

Hermione bade permission to excuse herself, for she and Mitsuki would be returning to entertain the room as a whole, and a sharp nod from her danna released her to leave the room, followed shortly by Mitsuki.

The minute they were safely behind the closed doors, Mitsuki's face twisted into a groan.

"Sakura, you wouldn't happen to have anything with you?"

"I'll go ask one of the house elves," Hermione said. "You go on in—if they ask where I am, tell Lord Snape or Mr. Malfoy, but no one else."

Mitsuki nodded and ducked back into the ballroom.

Hermione started off down the corridor, hoping to find a house elf cleaning a room or preparing the elaborate meals that were present at the party. As she walked, she felt a bit like a fugitive sneaking through the house, or a thief, though she berated herself for it. She wasn't spying right now—not consciously, anyways. She was just looking for some Pain-Relief Potion—

A hand came to rest on her shoulder and Hermione let out a startled half-squeak and whipped around.

Draco Malfoy raised his eyebrow at this, but put on a friendly, endearing smile.

"Is there a reason why you're wandering through the house?"

"I was looking for a house elf," Hermione replied, immediately regaining her composure, giving the impression of lofty disinterest. "I was hoping they might fetch my sister and I some Pain-Relief Potion." She let out a chime of laughter. "Dancing all night is harder than it looks."

Draco gave a courteous half-bow. "Of course." He smiled in what Hermione assumed was supposed to be warm and inviting, but perhaps it was merely Hermione's perspective that made it seem as though he were a snake with too many teeth. "I'll be more than happy to fetch you some myself. Why don't you go wait at the Entrance Hall?"

Understanding that she was dismissed, Hermione bowed in thanks, straightened up, and walked back the way she had come.

She felt Draco's eyes watching her as she left.

~o~O~o~

Hermione delicately sniffed the bottle of what she assumed was Pain-Relief Potion. She was suspicious of anything Draco might give her, but it didn't smell off. Love Potions were easy to detect if they were mixed with other potions, if you knew what to look for, and this batch showed no signs of having been tampered with.

She took several sips, roughly the equal of one dose, and then passed the flask to Mitsuki, who helped herself to it before handing it back to Hermione, who screwed the cap back on and placed it on one of the torch holders, tucking it in the corner where it would be largely out of sight but available if they needed more.

Mitsuki sighed in relief as they pain began to withdraw from her body. "Thank the gods for potions."

Hermione smiled thinly, but made no comment.

"I thought my legs would be about to give out—and my throat hurts. We haven't danced this intensely for years, and we haven't done much dancing together at all since Lord Snape became your danna."

Hermione winced as she swallowed down the potion. "We're merely objects of entertainment to them. They expect us to manage it somehow."

"Clearly," Mitsuki said, summoning a glass of water for herself and downing it. "Somehow."

"We're not required to do any more dancing or singing for tonight," Hermione said helpfully. "We can relax and listen."

"Most of the men here look taken, and I know better than to get between a Pureblood witch and her husband, but I think the younger ones might be worth trying."

"Don't forget to make them pay before you indulge them," Hermione reminded her.

Mitsuki sniffed. "I haven't forgotten."

"I had to hex him for you," Hermione said, giggling and clasping her hands over her mouth in a manner most unlike Hermione Granger.

"I haven't forgotten," Mitsuki repeated, but she too was giggling now. "Let's go in, shall we? I do expect Lord Snape would like to see you after that performance."

Hermione nodded, and Mitsuki re-entered the ballroom while Hermione levitated the flask of Pain-Relief Potion into the crock of an iron torch bracket just beyond the door.

"Steady does it…" she muttered.

"Steady indeed," a voice said to her from behind. Hermione whipped around to find Draco once again standing behind her, and she drew herself up. Appearing afraid would make her an easier target. Appearing strong and confident might deter him, or at least make him hesitate. "That was some very nice dancing, Sakura."

Politeness forced Hermione to make a short bow of thanks for his compliment.

"You've rather enchanted me, I must say," Draco continued smoothly. "Would you do me the honour of accompanying me upstairs?" Sensuously—something that made Hermione a bit sick to her stomach—he added, "Perhaps you could show me what else you know?"

How subtle he'd been.

"My apologies," Hermione replied coolly. "I service no one but Lord Snape."

"But you can be bought," Draco pressed, eyes glittering excitedly.

"I don't abrogate on my agreements, Mister Malfoy. I work for Lord Snape and Lord Snape alone, whether it be for potions research or other… things."

Draco drew himself up. "I know my godfather—he is a brilliant man, and cruel at times—" the admiration in his voice made Hermione want to punch him again. Had Draco truly enjoyed seeing Severus be so horrible to his students while he was a student himself? "—but he is rather lacking in the looks department. A pretty girl like you deserves a better man—why not let yourself go for one night?"

"I'm not interested," Hermione replied staidly. She might have tried to push past him, but she knew better than to put herself in closer contact with him. If he grabbed her, he would have the advantage physically. "I enjoy my work with Lord Snape and would rather not do anything that might jeopardize our contract."

"Just one night," Draco wheedled, stepping forward.

Hermione pulled out her wand from the bun her hair had been drawn up in and pointed it at him.

"Leave." Her tone brooked no further argument.

With a frustrated sigh, and to Hermione's great relief, Draco backed away and gestured for her to go. She walked past him, shoulders straight and back erect, and wearing a mask of haughty indifference.

"You remind me of an ex-classmate of mine," Draco said, his face twisting strangely. "Surely you would indulge me this one fantasy…"

Hermione didn't even bother to look at him. She was afraid that if she did, she might be tempted to punch him. Working at a teahouse was more labour-intensive than people ever gave credit for, and if she landed a blow on him, she would probably end up breaking his nose.

"No."

She slipped into the ballroom and shut the door firmly behind her.

Glancing one around the room, she spotted her danna, still sitting next to Lucius, and gratefully glided over to where he was. His presence would be a protection for the rest of the night, and a chance to further earn his trust and be a favourable reflection upon him—a man like him would be judged on the performance of the people he hired—and Hermione would much rather be working on that than trying to dissuade Malfoy.

Her fingers lightly brushed the jewel-encrusted Basilisk fang he had given her, the chain of which she had wrapped around her wrist so that if she thrust her arm forward, the tooth would be within reach of her hand and she could pull it out in self-defence. It was much more efficient than attempting to unclasp it from around her neck if a scuffle should ensue.

She shook the necklace further up her arm and took a seat next to Lord Snape.

~o~O~o~

_Tick-tock tick-tock._

Hermione glanced up at the clock.

_Tick-tock tick-tock._

She knew that time was slowly running out, but she still hadn’t the faintest clue how to fix this.

A sleepy arm wrapped around her midsection, pulling her closer to the man in her bed, and Hermione deliberated whether or not to indulge him. To indulge herself. She twisted around to look at him, risking him seeing the open expression on her face, but his eyes were still closed.

Did she want this? Did she want him?

It was hard for her to tell at this point. She had come to care for him. She had felt enormous relief, deep down somewhere, that she no longer had to kill him. She had already dismissed all possibilities of resuming a normal life in Britain once Severus was deposed. She fingered the fang around her wrist. She had already found herself making plans to escape Britain when Harry brought the Order with him, but she still didn’t know how she was going to handle Severus.

Did she tell him that Sakura was a fantasy? Did she reveal her real identity?

In a way, she wasn’t sure—on one hand, Hermione Granger as everyone knew her was long gone. It didn’t make Sakura more real, but it did bring up the issue that Sakura was no longer the only fake. Who was she, this woman that was somewhere between Hermione Granger and Sakura?

It was difficult for her to admit that she wanted Severus Snape. She had grown fond of him—if fond was the right word for it. If fondness was the right word to describe how she felt about a man who not only shared her bed more often than not, but who she often invited to spend the night. A man she risked waking with a kiss in the morning, and whose welfare was often at the forefront of her mind.

Three months before the Order would arrive. How should she handle this?

Black eyes snapped open, and before Hermione could react, he had reared up and rolled them both over, so that she was beneath him. Hermione couldn’t help herself—she laughed, as he leaned forward to take a nipple into his mouth.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked, voice muffled.

Hermione wound her fingers into his hair. “You are,” she answered honestly, as he began slurping on her tits in earnest. She arched her back. “First thing on your itinerary in the morning, and it’s this.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, twisting out from underneath him. She wrapped both arms around his shoulder, and then pushed. He went down easily, one eyebrow raised as she straddled atop him, hands braced against his chest. “We always do things your way.”

“Yes,” he responded simply. “Because I own you.”

“No.”

“No?” He asked, sitting up just a bit.

“If you’re serious about leaving Britain soon…”

“I am,” Severus said curtly. “It’s lost its charm. I’ve done my work.”

“And if you’re also serious about wanting me to come along…”

“I am,” he repeated. “You’re the only charming thing around here.”

Hermione closed her eyes, holding back a smile. “Then that means we’ll be leaving together as partners. Equals.”

He frowned. “And that means what, exactly?”

“You’re not a stupid man, Severus.” Hermione trailed a hand down his belly, ignoring his indignant snort in response to this statement. “Some things are going to change. I want to be treated like a person,” she enunciated carefully, “not property.”

For a moment, he looked as though he were about to protest—not at her request, but at the notion that he had not, in fact, been treating her as anything but a person. But then Hermione saw the light in his eyes as he realized what she was saying, as he replayed their conversation—his remark about owning her—and then discussions past. She was right, and she knew that he knew it.

Quietly, and very cautiously, Hermione opened herself up just a bit. “I care for you,” she whispered. “I know this was all just a business arrangement… at first… but I think…”

The words caught in her throat.

“I think…”

She couldn’t say it. Not without breaking the smooth mask that she still held in place, keeping herself centered. She took a deep breath, and turned away.

“I care for you, alright?” she said at last. “I care for you more than I should, if this were just—if you were just my danna, and I was just a teahouse girl.”

The shock on Snape’s face couldn’t be plainer.

“So not only have I agreed to go with you, I _want_ to go with you,” Hermione said softly. “But I also want some things to change.”

Her gaze hardened.

“You treat me in so many different ways,” she continued. “You treat me as a companion, and as your personal call girl. I am a source of sex and comfort for you, and a business partner. You do everything to me, and ask everything of me, and that’s not how you treat people you care for.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, and Hermione could see he was turning defensive. “What makes you think I care for you?”

“Well,” Hermione said lightly, quite familiar with his moods by now, and well-versed in how to handle them. She slid a hand down his body, tracing his navel. “You’re rather possessive of me, and this could just be how you are about what you own, but I also imagine that somewhere deep down, it’s also because you don’t want to lose me—as me.”

An ordinary man would have looked away at this. Snape held her gaze steadily. “Astute as ever,” he praised silkily, lifting a hand to her face. His fingers caught one of her curls. “And you’re right—I don’t want to lose you.”

Hermione’s breath caught at the admission—she hadn’t expected him to be so forward about it. But then she straightened up, stiffening her spine for what she was about to say next. She wouldn’t let platitudes stop her from getting her point across. “We’re equals,” she said solidly. “And you’ll learn to treat me like one.”

He was silent for several long moments. She watched his expression close up, as he considered her words. As he weighed the intentions behind the request. His gaze slid from her face to his hand, where his fingers wound around her hair, and then his attention flickered back to her.

“How much do you care for me?” he asked quietly, his voice so soft she had to strain to hear.

Hermione swallowed.

“More than you’ll ever know,” she said honestly.

He would never know all the times she had tried or planned to kill him. He would never find out that she had given up her attempts, and instead put her efforts into his good interests. He wouldn’t find out that she had slowly fallen for him even when she shouldn’t have, and that he was the closest person she would ever have to a true lover. He was someone who had been as scarred by the war as she. He was a man who had already grasped the reality that they would never be able to live the life that they had before.

He would also never know that he was the only one who had succeeded in bringing her this far out of her shell. She had worn the mental mask, the perpetual porcelain poker-face, for so many years that it had become a part of her. And he had cracked it.

Somewhere in the room, Hermione knew, Crookshanks purred as Snape leaned forward to kiss her.

 


End file.
